Sightless
by Azolean
Summary: Post-Flatmates to Friends, but not directly related. Holmes and Watson are forced to cope with the consequences of an injury.
1. Prologue

_**A/N: **Strangely enough, this next little tidbit was not born of some desire for angst to counter all the fluff floating around my room lately. This unexpected piece was spawned by my frustration. Recently my glasses have suffered a fatal blow to one lens that has left me feeling blind. Only being able to see clearly out of one eye can be very, very nerve wracking. And I've got at least two weeks before I'll get my replacement glasses. _

_So, despite the ridiculously enlarged font size needed to write, I'm going to be playing with this idea to see how it turns out. Needless to say, updates may be a bit slower depending on the headaches this gives me. _

* * *

**Prologue**

Watson paced the sitting room. Limping painfully, he used the pain as a focal point. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had a good night's sleep, it seemed. His restless movement now was a cross somewhere between anxious worry and frustrated anger. The vicious, icy rain of the late-November evening outside their sitting room seemed to want to pound its way in through those windows. Holmes' restless, nocturnal activities of the last few days combined with his aching old wounds had kept him up for some time. And, now, it was all he could do to keep from chasing his friend out into that weather.

Holmes was nearly an hour overdue.

Though it was not unlike Holmes to disappear from time to time without telling his friend and partner where he was going or what he was doing, it was unusual for him to set a specific time and not meet it without at least sending word. More importantly, Watson's instincts for danger had been aroused when Holmes had been so outright evasive of his current case. It was not out of the ordinary at all for him to withhold details until his final, theatrical resolution of a case. However, there was something different about this. Holmes seemed almost...concerned, for Watson. It was as if he really didn't want Watson involved, and the best way he could find to keep his partner out of the case was to simply not discuss it at all.

Watson frowned darkly as he swung around to face the fire, yet again. He was certain Holmes knew better by now. Not telling Watson while giving every other indication of having a case was enough to drive them both to distraction. Granted, Watson had little else to do with his time than join in those cases that Holmes deemed he was fit enough to prove of some use. Yet, Holmes had not displayed any outward signs of annoyance at Watson's participation or continued "meddling".

Heaving a sigh, he tried to force some semblance of calm. Looking up at the clock for perhaps the hundredth time, Watson attempted to stifle his growing sense of something being very, very wrong. He did not even know where to begin. As much as he would love to go out and find his friend, if only for his own reassurance, he did not know where to even start looking for the infuriating man. He had found nothing to indicate what Holmes was working on or where he could have gone. He had only the man's word that he would be back by eight o'clock.

Watson continued pacing.

Grumbling something less than complementary about Holmes to himself, Watson continued to use the pain and constant motion as a motivation. At this point, nearly two hours late, he was certainly going to give the detective a piece of his mind. When Holmes showed up he was going to—

Suddenly, the sound of the downstairs door being thrown open rather violently arrested his attention. Knowing this would be Holmes, and it did not sound good, he threw open the sitting room door. Holmes was frantically launching himself up the first flight of stairs when Watson met him on the landing. Both Holmes and the child in his arms were soaked through. Holmes, shivering violently, met Watson's eyes with something akin to deep worry. To anyone else, his face would have been an impassive mask. To his closest companion, he appeared on the verge of outright panic.

Immediately Watson satisfied himself to Holmes' condition in that brief glance. Turning his attention to the child in his friend's arms, he noted the unnatural angle of the left arm, the spectacular bruising along the same exposed arm and leg, the blood-soaked bandage around the boy's head, and Holmes very deliberately not holding the child around the ribs.

"Bring him to the sitting room," Watson commanded. "How far did he fall?"

For a moment Holmes could not answer through his chattering teeth. Right before his eyes he had seen the friend and flatmate of nearly two years turn into something completely different. The man had suddenly taken on an air of authority and professionalism that demanded instant attention. The very timber of Watson's voice had even changed as he ushered them toward the settee. Even as Holmes moved to set the boy on the settee, Watson stopped him.

"Don't! I need you to hold him for now. Until I know more about his injuries, setting him down may aggrivate—"

"S-second s-s-story window," Holmes managed to stutter out between chattering teeth as he continued to shiver.

Watson had already called for Mrs. Hudson and was instructing her what items he needed from his room. Turning back toward the sitting room and his desk, Watson pulled up a chair to where Holmes now sat with the boy still carefully cradled in his arms. Ignoring Holmes almost completely, he gently began to check the boy over.

"Secondary impacts and injuries?"

Holmes could only blink in confusion, his cold and shock numbed thoughts filled with worry as he tried to comprehend what Watson was asking.

"Holmes!" Watson's green eyes flared impatiently. "Pay attention! I need you to answer my questions. Were you there?"

"Yes," Holmes said, finding himself shocked by this new man sitting before him.

"He fell from a second story window, correct?" Watson asked, leading him more gently. "Did he hit anything else or was it a direct landing on the ground?"

"Ground...I couldn't...I wasn't..."

"Don't worry about that now. Did he land on his side only, or was the impact at an angle?"

"Side."

By then Mrs. Hudson had returned with the doctor's somewhat dusty, but obviously cared-for bag. Watson immediately began to root through it, but froze when he heard the boy's soft, wheezing cough. Frowning for a moment, he listened. Muttering something, he instantly moved the shirt a few inches upward. Despite the massive bruising, he sighed in relief at assuring himself there were no broken ribs.

"You can put him on the settee. Carefully! Then you need to go and change out of those clothes, now!"

Holmes had only enough time to flash a brief, defiant glare as this Dr. Watson cut him off before he even had a chance to protest. The fact that Watson had predicted his next words without even bothering to take his attention off his task just made it all the more irksome. However, he knew the doctor was right. He had to get out of those clothes and warm. Though he very dearly wanted to stay nearby and learn for himself how badly this poor child was hurt, he tore across the sitting room to his own bedroom. In minutes he was changed and dry.

"My wallet is in my desk drawer. There is a list of things I will need. You can get them from Dr. Cummings," Watson informed Holmes, never taking his eyes off the boy he was now cleaning and assessing. "Send up Mrs. Hudson on your way out."

Holmes found the swiftly scribbled list on the desktop. It never even occurred to him to send Mrs. Hudson or call someone else to do the doctor's bidding. That voice and his friend's demeanor demanded and expected instant obedience. And, just as Dr. Watson had expected, Holmes did as he was ordered. Dashing back into the nearly freezing rain, Holmes ran straight to Dr. Cummings' a few blocks away. He returned in record time with the supplies.

He found Watson murmuring softly to the semi-conscious child as he tended to the numerous injuries. The broken arm had been straightened, and only splinted for now to keep it in place. Watson's expression of urgency and concern had not changed, though he continued to soothe the child in a voice that was low and almost hypnotic. Holmes barely had enough time to take all of this in before Watson again began to fire questions at him.

"Is he one of your Irregulars?"

"Yes," Holmes responded, stopping his frantic pacing.

"Parents?"

"No," Holmes said almost sadly, noting the doctor's frown.

"Siblings?"

"Yes."

"How many others are sick?"

"What?"

Watson's frown of consideration and concern took on a note of annoyance as he was forced to take his eyes off the child long enough to meet Holmes' gray eyes. Those green eyes flashed angrily behind the calculating professionalism.

"He's sick. The rattling you hear in his breathing is likely pneumonia. How many others are sick? Where are they staying? What kind of care are they receiving? How did you—"

Seeing the level of concern in those gray eyes rise a considerable sum, Watson finally understood.

"You didn't know?"

Holmes pale face and pinched expression never changed as he shook his head. Watson sighed wearily as he returned his attention to cleaning the wounds and preparing his stitch the open wound on the child's head.

"Find them, Holmes. This weather will kill them. His fever is nearly enough to kill him by itself. He should never have been out in this weather."

"Watson..."

"I'll do what I can. But you have to find the others. If they have nowhere else to stay, bring them here."

"Here?" Holmes shot back, incredulous.

"Yes, here," Watson affirmed, his annoying showing through. "Unless you have some way of furnishing me with a consulting room, then they will come here. Now."

Horrified by the very idea, Holmes warred with himself. His level of compassion for those children he had begun to work with in his still budding career was one he did not question. However, the idea of a bunch of sick children in his sitting room...

Watson had already returned to his task. Sensing more than seeing Holmes still present, he turned his face upward for a moment as he glared balefully. He didn't have time to argue. He began to carefully stitch the wound. Keeping his voice carefully lowered so as not to disturb the child he was working on, Watson put aside his irritation. But, to his closest companion, that voice was rigid with anger barely contained.

"Very well, then. Please, ask Mrs. Hudson to join us for a moment."

"But—"

"Now, Holmes."

Holmes could only stare wide-eyed at the doctor. That tone, those features, his entire demeanor was not one he would have ever expected from the broken man he had met nearly two years ago. This was_ Doctor_ Watson, and he was not about to accept a negative answer from his flatmate. Annoyed beyond all reason, still reeling with the events of the night, Holmes opened the sitting room door to bellow down the stairs as was his custom.

"If you wake him..."

Whatever threat Watson was about to utter was cut off as Holmes choked on his shout. Grumbling angrily, he stalked down the stairs to knock on Mrs. Hudson's door. As Watson had been expecting, the woman was still up and about as if waiting to be called. Holmes grated out something about Watson needing assistance before heading back to the sitting room. By this point, Watson was tying of the last of the very few stitches the wound had needed. He was carefully tending the rest of the boy's injuries as Mrs. Hudson filed in behind him.

"Mrs. Hudson, thank you for your help," Watson started, again not taking his eyes off the patient on the settee. "He's running a very high fever. We will need cold cloths, blankets..."

"I'll see to it, Doctor."

"Thank you, and would you be so kind as to see to the lad tonight?"

"Doctor?"

Watson sighed. "He's very sick, and we need to get the fever down. But I have to find the others—"

"Oh, very well, then! I'll go!" Holmes cut him off. "I know where to find most of them."

"No," Watson cut him off. "I've reconsidered. This is not the place to keep sick children. Tell me where to find them—"

"Watson—"

"—and I'll see to them, myself."

"Most of them don't know you. They won't trust you," Holmes said with finality, as the doctor finally rose from where he'd been sitting. "I'll go and fetch them. But if you think that turning this place into—"

"You're going to bring them here?" Mrs. Hudson asked, nearly horrified.

"Exactly," Watson said, as if she had just proven his point. "This is not—"

"If they're as sick as you say—"

"You can't bring a bunch of dirty street—"

"Enough!" Watson stated in a low voice that demanded instant response.

Watson waited only long enough to ensure he had their undivided attention. Turning to Mrs. Hudson first, he said, "Please, Mrs. Hudson. I will handle the situation if I have to take every one of them to a hospital myself. But he's injured and needs a place to sleep—just for tonight. His fever is high and needs to be brought down. Exposing him to this weather in his condition will kill him."

Her dark brown eyes took in the sight of the broken little boy sleeping fitfully on the settee and she knew she could not refuse even this. Nodding slowly, she made up her mind. "I will see to him. But—"

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," Watson said, leaving a miffed landlady behind as he had already dismissed her in turning his attention to the greater task at hand.

Repacking and doing a mental inventory of his supplies, Watson asked Holmes, "Where can I find them? How many are there?"

"Watson—"

"I don't have time for this, Holmes," he shot back, grabbing his coat and cane. "Just tell me—"

"I'm going with you," Holmes snapped. "You'll need the help, and I know where to find them."

"As you wish," Watson said, already exiting the sitting room, all but dismissing Holmes and his protests from his mind.

~o~o~o~

Some four days later Watson stumbled as he re-entered the sitting room for the first time in what felt like an eternity. Surprisingly, Holmes was there. Part of his mind registered the fact that there was a blazing fire and warmth. He couldn't remember the last time he felt warm. He was shivering so badly he had been unable to remove his coat. He dropped his bag and cane just inside the door. All those days and nights spent on bedside vigils and tending the sick—

His next recollection was of a grumbling detective who's pale fact was once again pinched with worry hovering almost directly over him. His tired, sleep-deprived mind took several minutes to catch up. He remembered sending Holmes home once he had made a plan for his rounds of the houses of those Irregulars that were known to be sick. He recalled finally leaving the last house, certain they were out of danger. Though, everything after that had been a blur of freezing rain and...

"Holmes?"

Holmes' features relaxed with obvious relief. "Good morning, dear chap."

"Where..."

Watson's words trailed off as he took in his present surroundings. At some point someone had changed him out of his sodden, icy clothing and tucked him in quite warmly. He was surprised to see the settee had been pulled close to the fire. His face colored as he realized his present circumstances.

"How long?"

Holmes snorted. "Only a day."

Struggling to a sitting position, Watson started, "I'm sorry. I must have—"

Holmes cut him off with a dismissive wave of his hand as he resumed puffing away at his pipe. "You didn't sleep for at least five days. And, as near as I could tell, you didn't eat, either. You are in no condition to be traipsing around the city—"

"Leave off," Watson finally cut him off, cradling his sore head in his hands.

Obviously one day of sleep had not been enough. But, he had to admit, Holmes was right. He had not been in any condition for such activity. Nonetheless, he had discovered very quickly upon meeting several of the other Irregulars and their families that many of them had—as he expected—not sought any kind of medical advice or care. Their poverty was heartbreaking. And he would be damned if he'd just sit around his nice, warm sitting room knowing they needed help he could provide.

A moment later these thoughts were interrupted by the sudden appearance of a cup of tea within his limited visual range. Glancing up, he again caught a brief flash of worry from his friend before it was quickly smoothed away. Nodding gratefully, Watson accepted the tea with his thanks. Despite his exhaustion, his mind had already begun planning his next rounds as he would need to follow-up on the initial round of care he had provided along with instructions.

"No."

Watson blinked before turning his confused expression toward his friend.

"You need not worry further, Doctor," Holmes said more gently. "They have followed your instructions and agreed to inform me of there is further need for your services. For the time being, you need to rest. You will do them no good in your current condition."

Understanding lit those green eyes as Watson's still exhausted mind began to absorb the fact that his friend had once again been reading his thoughts. Frowning slightly, he returned to his tea. Part of him disliked the idea of not knowing the outcome or returning to ensure proper care of those he considered to be his patients. But he could not deny the wisdom of Holmes' statement. He only vaguely recalled the hours leading up to his return to Baker Street. While he did not doubt his abilities as a doctor, it was a rather disturbing to realize he had pushed himself so far. For a moment, he considered his condition. He did not feel unwell, but he had not experienced this level of exhaustion in...years.

"Are you certain? There were so many of them, and..."

Holmes smiled fondly. "You did, well, Watson. They will be fine."

Finally Watson allowed his friend's confident demeanor to allow him to relax. As he huddled more deeply into the blankets, allowing the warmth and tea to soothe him, he could feel something deep inside change within him. The fear he had kept closely guarded at last began to dissipate. He may never be a surgeon again, but at least there was something of his profession left to him that he could use to make a difference in the world around him.


	2. Chapter One

_**A/N: **Well, that was a rather lengthy prologue. I'm wondering if that will reflect how long the story itself will actually come out in the end. I almost made that prologue a one-shot. But, then, it really is needed here in the body of this story to reflect certain elements. _

_I guess I shall press on and see how this works. _

* * *

**Chapter One**

Some six months later in late May of 1883 Watson again found himself in similar circumstances. He woke on the settee to find Holmes hovering worriedly nearby at his desk while pretending all the while not to be hovering. Covering his grin behind a yawn, Watson began to stretch himself carefully in an attempt to work out some of the kinks. Obviously, he had, at some point, lost consciousness in his exhaustion.

"Alright, Holmes," Watson said around another yawn. "I'm just...a little tired."

Holmes snorted, pretending to go back to perusing his papers. Though Watson had caught him freezing to listen more closely to his own movements only moments before. However, Holmes did not bother asking the obvious.

"You really should stop pushing yourself so hard, Doctor," Holmes finally addressed him, turning around in his chair to face his friend. "There are others who can attend to the injured, you know."

Watson grinned slightly, smelling some of Mrs. Hudson's delightful cooking wafting up the stairs to their sitting room. His stomach growled in response as he forced his tired, aching body to a sitting position.

"Yes, but most of them were unavailable at the time, dear chap," Watson responded. "Besides, the Irregulars trust me."

Holmes flashed a brief smile that went unnoticed by Watson. The level of trust the lads and their family members bestowed upon the doctor was not unexpected. Holmes himself had long ago learned that even the most paranoid of people would find themselves trusting the doctor entirely within minutes of having met the man. To his own surprise, he had found himself to be one of them. But, as he watched his friend moving stiffly now toward the tea set on the nearby table, he wondered if the doctor wasn't pushing himself a little too much.

There would always be the poorer of London's inhabitants in need of a doctor's care that were too scared or too poor to afford it. However, the doctor had seemed to make it his own personal mission to see to the care of as many of these as he could reach. He made no mention of recompense of his services, but was repaid in a variety of smaller, more practical ways. In addition to making those rounds, he had begun making rounds at some of the local hospitals. This, at least, provided him with some meager income. But, more importantly, Holmes had watched the man grow and recover far more swiftly than ever he had before returning to his professional calling. In the nearly two years prior to that first night, the man had seemed almost...lost, still. Now, there was not a moment of hesitation or a time when the doctor wasn't working or planning on working somewhere. It almost seemed to Holmes the man was trying to make up for lost time.

And, as ever, he was much involved in Holmes' continuing string of cases.

"I'm sorry I wasn't present last night," Watson commented as he returned to his seat with a cup of tea. "Were you able to catch up to those thieves?"

"Ha!" Holmes said, excitedly turning around to face his friend. "You missed much, Watson. They are not merely thieves, but murders as well."

Watson's eyebrows shot up as this new piece of information. He knew he would not need to prod his flatmate further, as Holmes was swiftly moving around the room in search of some item or another. Before he located this item, he had already begun his description of the events. While Watson had been otherwise occupied caring for the victims of a cab accident, Holmes had gone to investigate a suspected buyer of stolen goods. He had been planning to setup a buy that would trap at least some of the key suspects in the little theft ring. However, the buyer had been murdered that same day. Obviously he had been watched. While this did not sit well with Holmes, it had provided a needed clue to tracking these thieves to their little operation.

From what he had found, there were three conjoined storefronts in the East End that gave all outward appearances of being long abandoned. But, his suspicion was that these were being used to hide the stolen goods and the thieves that seemed to disappear like London fog on a sunny afternoon. As frustrating as this tracking and lack of information had been, he now suspected he was very close to a resolution to this whole messy affair. But, now, more than ever, he would be needing Watson's help.

"Of course," Watson replied to Holmes' as yet unspoken question, concealing his lingering weariness.

If Holmes needed him, then he would be ready. Already planning on another short nap before Holmes' planned activities for the evening, he waited impatiently for Mrs. Hudson to bring up their lunch. He was famished. The work of the last few days had left him more than a little tired. Much to his chagrin, however, he often found himself mirroring some of Holmes' behavior in that his work often left him sleep and food deprived for extended periods. Typically, his work kept him engrossed enough that he didn't have time to give in to the demands of his body. But then there were times that he knew whatever food he accepted would likely leave one of his patient's family members without; and he would continued to ignore his stomach's sometimes painful demands.

Holmes outlined his plan to do a little reconnaissance of the three storefronts that night while he expected the thieves themselves to be elsewhere. He did not know where, and hoped to find out more about the operation as a whole as much as taking down the little ring he had uncovered, thus far. The insult to his professional pride in the form of murder was enough to ensure he would catch them all, one way or another.

Watson listened with only half an ear to Holmes' words knowing he would be given further instructions only when the detective was good and ready to give them. For now, he had more important concerns; such as the sound of slowly approaching feet. Springing from his seat, he set aside his tea cup to open the sitting room door for Mrs. Hudson. Holmes again sniffed disapprovingly as Watson reigned in his impatience. He practically shooed Mrs. Hudson back out the door as he settled down to the table. Only briefly did he cock an eyebrow at Holmes who smiled back as he shook his head in denial.

Watson wasted no time in tucking into his own meal as Holmes continued to dance around the sitting room going over various bits and papers from other cases. He sent telegrams and wrote notes and shuffled papers. By the time Watson was full enough to feel satisfied, he had put away a considerable portion of the meal and was feeling more content than he had in days. The heat of the day combined with attempting to mentally keep up with Holmes' current display of energy left him chuckling into his tea.

"Something amuses you?" Holmes asked distractedly.

_I grow tired just watching you, dear fellow, _Watson thought to himself. Instead, he stifled his grin behind his cup before replying, "Since it would seem we are going to be out for a significant portion of the night, I believe I will retire to my room for a couple of hours."

Holmes nodded, as if only half listening. Though, based on his relaxing expression, Watson knew he had heard. Obviously he was still in some doubt about Watson's fitness regarding his plans for the night. Hearing that his friend was planning on resting seemed to ease some of his concern. Setting aside his tea, Watson headed up to his bedroom.

~o~o~o~

Unfortunately, Watson found himself tossing and turning rather than sleeping peacefully that afternoon. Though he could not quite pinpoint the cause of his concern, something instinctual told him there was more than Holmes was not telling him. That, in itself, was by no means unusual. But the sense of something out of place was disturbing him more than he could describe. Frustrated at his inability to grasp the source of his restless thoughts, he eventually gave up his attempts at sleep and returned to the sitting room. By this point, Holmes had apparently left for some errand or another and Watson was left in peace.

Enjoying one of these rarer moments when he had time on his hands alone in the sitting room, he took out one of their more recent case journals and began filling in some of the details he'd neglected while working elsewhere. He'd lost count of how often his services as a doctor were called upon these days. Though he had yet to open an official practice, it seemed everyone now knew of his willingness to treat anyone that would ask for his help. Sometimes it seemed a bit overwhelming to realize how much of a demand there was for this time. But, as ever, he refused to back down when someone was in need of him.

For a while he enjoyed the simple peace and quiet of the sitting room and not quite uncomfortable heat of the spring day. He almost toppled from his chair some time later when he realized he had begun dozing off where he sat. Shaking his head at this unexpected turn, he closed the journal and placed it carefully back on the shelf above his desk. He had only just enough time to settle comfortably on the settee when the peace was shattered by Holmes' return.

As ever when on a case with an exciting turn, the man was a bundle of limitless energy. With the sun was already setting, he was all but bouncing around the sitting room with impatience. Obviously he had his preparations in place and was ready to get moving. Watson, still more tired than he would have liked, quickly prepared himself for the night's adventures. The last, lingering traces of exhaustion washed away in the cool night air as Holmes led them across town. The sense of unease had not yet let up, but Watson felt all the more secure for the weighted walking stick in one hand and gun concealed in his jacket pocket. Having Holmes by his side, he felt the familiar tingling of excitement and near invulnerability he had come to look forward to in their shared exploits.

Holmes said very little, beyond repeating some of what he had outlined earlier. Beyond gaining some needed information, he really did not expect much action. He was planning on using Watson more as a lookout than any real backup. As they approached the shadowy storefronts, Watson felt his unease growing. Something seemed very out of place. Gripping Holmes by the sleeve of his dark gray jacket, he forced them to pause in the shadows across the street from their intended target.

"Wait, Holmes—"

"What?" Holmes snapped impatiently.

"Have you any idea what is going on in there right now?" Watson forced himself to ask, fairly certain he was missing something completely obvious.

"Of course not," Holmes shot back quickly, impatient to be about their shady business. "That's why we're here."

"Holmes," Watson started, a hint of warning in his voice, "what am I missing here?"

Holmes huffed a put upon sigh. "Likely everything of any real importance. Now, can we—"

"Something's not right."

Holmes frowned in frustration. He needed to get over there while he was certain the place was empty and unguarded. He really didn't have time for these explanations. The fact that Watson rarely demanded any sort of explanation or clarification really didn't enter into his mind. Knowing full well that Watson would follow, Holmes broke away from the shadows and headed toward the alley beside the corner shop. Hearing a growl of displeasure and then a slight limp as Watson followed him, he smiled to himself.

_Too easy,_ Holmes mused, somewhat snidely.

"Holmes!" Watson hissed, barely above a whisper.

Ignoring him, Holmes turned his attention to the nearby windows. Obviously they had been deliberately darkened with some sort of smeared soot or paint. Nonetheless, he could detect no activity with his keen hearing. Feeling a sense of triumph, he quickly began to test the windows for a way in. As expected, Watson gave up his half-hearted protests to turn his attention to their surroundings as he watched for danger.

Holmes had finally located a window he thought he could open when he was suddenly yanked back down to ground level by none other than his partner. He spun rather rudely, expecting to give Watson a verbal thrashing when his ears finally caught up to their circumstances. Rushing at them from both ends of the alley were half a dozen men. Watson only had enough time to raise his weighted stick before they were embroiled in a chaotic melee that left them no time for words.

In the mess of flailing arms and legs in the darkness of the alley, Holmes' only real advantage was his developed night vision. He greatly regretted the fact that he had not brought a walking stick of his own. But he had not expected to meet any resistence here, as they were supposedly planning a raid of a house all the way across the city. Watson, unfortunately, had had no chance to retrieve his gun from his pocket before they were overwhelmed.

For a while there seemed to be nothing but arms, legs, and the pounding of flesh on flesh as Holmes calculated each blow to do as much damage as possible without permanently crippling his opponent. At his back, he felt Watson doing the same as they wound up each taking three opponents. Being armed, Watson seemed to be faring better, but only barely. Holmes' swirling, calculating thoughts suddenly returned to his friend's recent collapse from having worked far too long without reprieve. He didn't even have a chance to register his sudden flash of concern before the clear and resounding clang of metal on brick gave explanation to Watson's lack of progress in his fight.

One of them was armed with a metal pipe, evening the odds.

However, Holmes had come to know all too well his friend's prowess in the battlefield. He was a fierce opponent. Even as Holmes effectively took down one of his own opponents with a kick to an exposed ribcage, he heard another body fall beside him. Assuming this was one of Watson's opponents, he barely spared a glance in that direction. His mind froze an instant later at realizing the body he very nearly tripped over in his own battle was Watson himself. On his hands and knees and obviously dazed, Watson was struggling to move out of the way. But the thug bearing the pipe had no intentions of letting him get off so easily.

Holmes thought his heart was going to freeze in his chest when he realized the man's target was Watson's head. That much force would easily crush his friend's skull. Too dazed to defend himself, Watson helpless to do more than attempt to shuffle away from the feet all around him. Reacting instinctively, Holmes turned his next punch into a full-armed swing a the man now swinging downward viciously with the pipe. The pipe barely slowed, but it was enough to alter the course. Instead of crushing Watson's exposed skull, it came down with a crushing blow across his left shoulder and head.

Watson did not utter even so much as pained gasp as he collapsed fully on the ground face-down in the muck.

Too late, Holmes realized he'd left himself open for attack. As booted feet and fisted hands forced their way through his feeble, weakened defenses, he could not spare Watson any further thought. He retaliated as best he could, but there were just too many. Even as he was beaten to his knees on the ground beside his friend, he found a random thought of gratitude for the pipe-wielder that had backed off. Even then, he knew this likely did not bode well for them.

The last thing he heard as darkness descended was a shrill ringing in his ears as pain exploded in his head.


	3. Chapter Two

**A/N: **lol Okay, I admit that was just wrong. Having re-read the last chapter and taking into account the story summary, I realized I totally left that hanging and everyone guessing. That really was not my intention. I simply reached a stopping point when my right eye demanded I cease my attempts at anything interesting, productive, or involving clear vision.

**Shell less snail** and **Guest: **I humbly beg your forgiveness for that. It was so not intentional, I promise. I'm throwing this next chapter up here just before work as part of that apology. Thank you so much for reviewing!

And, as ever, it seems I've used up all my creative juices in writing a story leaving nothing for an interesting title. Sorry.

* * *

**Chapter Two**

Holmes' first sense upon his gradual return to consciousness was the vague sense of a presence nearby. His last clear recollection being that of obvious danger, he reacted accordingly. Of course, he was rewarded equally with a grunt of pain followed by some colorful curses.

"Blast it all! Holmes! Wake up!"

It was dark. Too dark. Why should he have to wake up when his head hurt so bad and it was too dark to bother?

"I swear it Holmes! I'm going to rattle those teeth out of your head in a minute if you don't open your eyes before punching me!"

"Lesssstrde?"

Holmes slurred blearily. Something in the back of his foggy thoughts told him there was something important he should be doing. The inspector's presence was rarely ever a good thing.

"Wake up, man!"

Briefly there was a hand shaking him roughly. Oh yes, he was supposed to open his eyes. But they were just so heavy.

"Don't you dare leave me in this mess, you—"

Whatever else the inspector was going to say echoed hollowly through Holmes' mind as darkness rose up to claim him.

~o~o~o~

Lestrade cursed some more. This was a fine mess he was in now. Two unconscious men and a scene he couldn't make any sense of for the life of him. Had the constable that responded to the assault not recognized Holmes and his companion amid the bodies lying in the alley and reacted accordingly, he would have been left in the dark completely. Apparently he and the detective were once again working on the same case through different methods.

_Heaven forbid the blasted man should ever—_

His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of yet another constable. Surveying the three bodies in various conditions of abuse, Lestrade made a decision. And, as far as he was concerned, the infuriating detective earned it.

"Take them all to the nearest hospital. Have them kept under strict guard. Until we can sort this mess out, they're all looking at charges of assault."

"Sir?"

The young constable had worked with Lestrade only a few short weeks. But even after only so short a time, all within the Yard had heard the all but impossible tales of Sherlock Holmes. The very idea of having the man arrested was a shock to the poor young man's mind.

"Well, I can't charge them with breaking an entering, unfortunately. There's not enough evidence. So we'll just go with brawling for now," Lestrade responded with mock severity.

He knew it was rather unfair to the detective. In all likelihood his intentions had been of a nobler nature, but after that punch... He wanted answers. He was not about to let the detective slip past them while he was busy figuring out exactly what had happened here. He stood back and watched the three men being carried carefully out of the alley. This was going to be a long night.

He thought of his wife waiting for him at home. He'd be amazed if Cee didn't have his head on a pike by the end of the week for abandoning her to her less pleasant siblings. Seeing the wagons pulling away from the mouth of the alley, he shook his head.

_A _very _long week. _

~o~o~o~

"There's not much more we can do. He's..."

"Are you sure he won't tell you..."

"Why are you keeping them..."

"He's..."

The voices that drifted all around him soon brought with them the return of consciousness in a way Holmes found most unpleasant. Instead of nice, soothing darkness the light of day attempted to filter through his eyes sending signals back to his brain that resembled nothing so much as stabbing knives of fiery agony. In accordance with such abuse, his aching head began to pound in a way that made him wonder if the human skull really could explode.

A moment later his stomach joined the chorus as it lurched in a most unpleasant manner. This only bringing him closer to awareness, he then began to take inventory of the numerous aches and pains throughout his body. Somewhere in the recesses of his confused thoughts he realized he was not badly injured, as nothing felt broken. But he definitely didn't feel he should be awake at this point either.

Where was Watson? Why wasn't Watson caring for him? Watson would never have left him in such pain.

"Decided to wake up finally?" a curious voice laced with sarcasm finally addressed him directly.

"Go away, Lestrade."

"Oh no you don't. The doctor said you'd be up an about with a spectacular headache. Which, given my own black eye, I think serves you right. Now open your eyes."

Groaning painfully, hoping to make this nuisance go away, Holmes finally complied. At least if Watson was letting Lestrade verbally attack him at such a time, he must not be as close to dead as he would prefer at this point. Slowly, painfully, his eyes cracked open. The light assaulted him from all directions. His foggy thoughts nearly ceased again in the white agony that stabbed through them and into his eyes. Gradually, the blurry form of Lestrade began to shape itself out of the mess of objects around him.

"Lestrade?"

Lestrade grunted. "That's better."

Only then did Holmes' still foggy thoughts began to form inferences from the blurred visions around him. "Hospital?"

"Yes."

For a moment panic shot through Holmes. He couldn't exactly explain why at the moment. But the idea of a hospital...

He shot upward in his bed, his body reacting before his brain had a chance to catch up. But when he stomach caught up before his brain, there was no controlling the inevitable reaction. Lestrade jumped backward growling in disgust as Holmes emptied the meager contents of his stomach onto his shoes. Grinding his teeth in as he fumed silently, he stalked away for a moment; waiting just long enough to be sure the detective would not end up face-first on the floor.

A nurse bearing cold cloths and a bowl of water returned with Lestrade moments later. By this point Holmes was barely coherent and flopping senselessly on the bed. Lestrade resisted the urge to grab the younger man by the shoulders and shake him. Seeing the man's suffering, though, and knowing it was a result of the concussion, he sighed heavily and flopped back into the chair. He watched as Holmes began to put up a feeble resistence to the nurse's ministrations. Taking one of Holmes' bony wrists gently, he caught the man's attention.

"That's enough, Holmes," he said more softly than he felt at the moment. "She's only trying to help."

Holmes growled something uncomplimentary about Lestrade's and his chosen profession that had the inspector grinning. If he was able to remember something_ that _creative, then at least there wasn't permanent damage done to his memories, yet. "You do realize I'm the one that taught you that, Mr. Holmes."

Finally Holmes relaxed. He allowed the nurse's cool cloths to sooth his aching head and lay back limply on the pillows. After several minutes of just breathing, trying to control the reactions of his rebellious body, he slit his gray eyes open just enough to meet Lestrade's dark, concerned ones.

"What do you want, Lestrade?"

"Answers would be nice, but I doubt you're feeling that generous," Lestrade said as he sat back with his arms crossed. "For now, I just need confirmation of what took place in that alley."

"Watson. Go pester Watson," Holmes said as crossly as he could manage under the circumstances. Feeling truly wretched, he wondered again where the doctor had wandered off to in here.

Lestrade cocked an eyebrow, now wondering about the detective's damaged faculties. "You're in the hospital."

"I can see that for myself," Holmes snapped. "He should know by now—"

"So is Dr. Watson."

"Of course he is," Holmes turned his slitted eyes toward the inspector, feeling truly wretched as his stomach lurched with even this slight motion. "He's the one who brought me here."

Lestrade frowned darkly. He did not like where this was going. Nor did he appreciate being the one to have to tell the detective. Sighing wearily, he pointed to the bed on the other side of the man with which he was now speaking. "He's over there."

Carefully, Holmes slowly turned his head in the direction the inspector was pointing. Gradually his brain caught up with what he was seeing. It didn't take him long to register those slack features belonged to his friend and partner. He appeared to be sleeping peacefully in the next bed. Vaguely Holmes' still confused thoughts recalled a pipe and Watson lying on the ground. Looking over the doctor, he found a few signs of their scuffle from the night before. But nothing seemingly too severe. By all appearances, he was sleeping off a concussion. But something deep inside Holmes stirred at seeing the man so still in a hospital bed.

_He's never still when he sleeps!_

Gasping in shock, Holmes realized why this peaceful image disturbed him so deeply. In the two and a half years they'd been sharing rooms at Baker Street, Holmes had never seen Watson sleeping so soundly. The nightmares of his past haunted him, tormented him mercilessly in his sleep when they were given free reign. The doctor had never once voiced a complaint, and Holmes never expected him to do so. But it was something they both had grown accustomed two in their shared tenancy.

Holmes once again reacted instinctively. Turning his head back to Lestrade fast enough to make the room lurch with him this time, he opened his mouth to speak, but Lestrade beat him to it.

"As near as they can tell, he's in a coma," Lestrade said softly, almost apologetically.

For a moment Holmes could only stare. His mind refused to believe what he was hearing. Whatever else Lestrade had to say faded to a humming noise in the back of his head as his swiftly focusing thoughts turned inward.

It wasn't supposed to be Watson. Watson was not the one supposed to be lying there helpless or dying. It was supposed to be himself. His mind rebelled at the idea that his friend was lying there. A selfish voice said that Watson was supposed to be the one caring for him, though when that idea had formed as appropriate, he had no idea. Another part of him felt something the couldn't identify that was sickeningly close to...regret? Remorse? He wasn't sure. But was was certain it couldn't be guilt. How could he possibly feel guilty for another man's failure? Afterall, Watson should have been able to—

"Are you listening to me?" Lestrade snapped.

For a few seconds Holmes continued to stare blankly, as he forced these disgustingly emotional and irrational thoughts aside. Watson was in a coma. He may or may not ever wake up. That was all there was to the situation. It was time to bring his pain-filled head to heel. He had to get his thoughts under control. There was nothing he could do for the doctor. He had to continue his case. He was not about to let a bunch of murdering thieves get away.

For the second time he found himself clenching his teeth to hold back the bile rising in the back of his throat. He had finally managed to achieve an upright position where he could prop his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands. That was better. Not much, but a little better. At least now he didn't feel like he was being talked down to by the little inspector. Lestrade apparently decided to be kind enough to give him the time to recover some of his equilibrium as they sat in silence for a few moments while Holmes breathed through the pain and nausea.

_But Watson might never—_

Holmes ruthlessly crushed that thought. For that matter, he packed up all his thoughts of Watson into his little brain attic. Maybe one day he would revisit them. He doubted it. But, for now, they would do nothing but distract him from what was truly important. He had bungled his investigation. How it was Lestrade had learned of his activities and the investigation was a question he had yet to learn. There was a lot of work to be done. There was no time to spare thoughts for a man lying helpless in a bed in a hospital; even if that man was his only friend.


	4. Chapter Three

_**A/N:** Once again, thank you for the reviews. They mean a lot to me and are great motivation. Don't worry, I won't leave everyone hanging for too long. _

* * *

**Chapter Three**

Holmes' investigation had come to a grinding halt. For all his deductive powers, the amount of evidence left behind in those three conjoined stores could have fit into his cigarette case. And, even when the tiniest details are the most important, there was nothing he could find that would tell him where they had gone or what their next move was going to be. Working with Lestrade did no more than frustrate him further, as the man was as clueless as ever.

The night he had chosen specifically to find out more about their operation had been a setup. There was no other way to look at things. He had been given false information and the informant murdered shortly thereafter. He and Watson had been led to that location for the sole purposes of removing them from the investigation. And, to add insult to injury, the places had already been emptied of everything but the six men that had caught them in the alley.

As one day became two and then two became three, Holmes found himself at a loss. At every turn he was battling against those random thoughts of his partner and friend. Watson continued to lay there unresponsive, and the doctor's optimism of eventual recovery faded. When Holmes found himself stalking the sitting room early one morning attempting to make sense of this case and his thoughts on the entire messy affair, he found himself talking to an empty chair beside the fire place. That talking ceased as he found himself glaring at that chair as if demanding it produce his flatmate.

Five days after he had woken in the hospital to Lestrade's less than pleasant company, Holmes found himself turning away clients. He was in no mood to deal with petty problems that were beneath him. Displaying a streak of maliciousness, he sent them specifically to Lestrade with his compliments. His investigation had all but collapsed and his attempts to pick up the pieces had failed utterly. At one point he had even found himself sitting in the Diogenes attempting to vocalize his thoughts with his brother. Mycroft, of course, had brushed off all of this with the same air of languid boredom that reminded him how insignificant his life and problems were in the grand scheme of things.

On the morning of the sixth day, Holmes found himself standing beside the last bed in the long row in the nearly empty hospital ward. He stared down at the peacefully sleeping form of his flatmate, partner, and friend. His rational mind was screaming at him to walk away, that he was wasting time standing here. His irrational mind was screaming at the man lying there to wake up and join him in their rooms at Baker Street. His brother's voice with such condescending words came drifting back through his thoughts. Mrs. Hudson's sad, stoic eyes gazed back at him. Lestrade's annoyed expressions and responses, the doctor's hollow words of apologies bordering on condolences...

Growling wordlessly, Holmes flopped himself into the chair he had at some point pulled over to the bed without realizing he had done so. The doctor had somewhere in the last few days told him talking to his friend might help. But Holmes' rational thoughts and knowledge of anatomy informed him it was ridiculous to assume this empty shell in front of him could hear anything. The stillness of his friend's sleep alone informed him nothing of Watson was present. Worse was the idea that even if Watson_ did _wake up now, there was no telling _who _would wake up. Given the amount of brain injury suspected to have kept his friend in a coma this long, he could not help wondering if anything of Watson would be left. A part of him that had come to acknowledge this man as his friend recoiled in horror at the idea that Watson would not wake up _Watson._ That irrational fear filled him the longer his friend lay there insensate; as if he was slipping further and further away each day.

Huffing, Holmes fidgeted in his seat uncomfortably. He could feel every eye in the ward firmly fixed on his back. He felt like a fool. He was sitting here staring at a sleeping man. His mind was struggling to come up with something to say that did not sound as ridiculous as he now felt.

"Dr. Worth said you could hear me," Holmes finally started hesitantly. "I wonder if that is really the case. I really have no idea why I'm sitting here. It is rather rude of you to continue to ignore me."

Holmes paused, as if waiting for a response.

"I..."

He could think of nothing to say.

_I'm sorry?_

_ I need you?_

_ It should have been me?_

Nothing seemed appropriate and every one of those bore an element of the emotional that he found most incontinently irrational.

"You're supposed to tell me how to behave in these situations. I had informed you of my ignorance in the proper social behavior. I suppose visiting a comatose person in a hospital is normal?"

Holmes again waited, some tiny part of him desperately wishing for an answer. Again he was disappointed.

"Mycroft—my elder brother, by the way—says I'm simply infatuated with the idea of friendship. He is convinced I am as incapable of friendship as he. Do you believe that?"

Nothing.

Holmes slumped dejectedly in his chair. He really could not comprehend why he was here or what he was expecting. For all his knowledge of anatomy, he really had very little experience with the sick or injured. What little he had learned of people in comas these last few days, amounted to almost nothing. Of course, there was little to be done, as far as he could tell. Either the person would wake up or they wouldn't. Some in the medical fields theorized that it was less about the brain injury and more about a person's willingness to come back. But the horror stories of what some of them woke to find...

He repressed a shudder as he stood. He was wasting his time here.

"I do wish you would wake up and tell me, Watson."

For one, brief moment, he felt there was something more that needed to be said. Reasserting control of his rebellious thoughts, he shook his head. Silently he made his way down the row of beds and out the nearby door.

~o~o~o~

Much to his own surprise, Holmes found himself back in that hospital ward again the next day. And again, the day after that. He wasn't sure when it had become a habit. But with so little else to do with his time, he thought this at least some sort of diversion. He could feel the bleak emptiness tugging at this mind and soul. He so wanted to give in to it. And, he wanted to combat it with cocaine. There were times he just sat there, staring and wondering. His rational, scientific thoughts considered this a wonderful opportunity to study the human mind and the comatose. His irrational, emotional thoughts recoiled in horror at such callousness.

So he sat there, confused.

_Lonely._

This thought brought him up short one day. But he could not deny its accuracy. He was lonely without his friend. He had grown more than just accustomed to Watson's presence in their rooms at Baker Street. It was a sort of silent comfort to know he was not alone there. Even when Watson spent a day or two alone in his rooms in a fit of occasional depression of his own, it was a sense of presence that seemed to help give life to their rooms. Of course, there was Mrs. Hudson.

_But it is not the same. _

Most of the time he didn't talk. Sometimes he would prattle on about this or that. On rare occasion he would find himself practically lecturing on one subject or another. None of it seemed right. It was all just so much useless noise.

Today, some three weeks after their fight in the alley, he was in a talkative mood. Even he had to admit there was something almost desperate in that need to fill the silence. The constant movement and shuffle of people and the sounds of the sick revolted him in a way that he didn't care contemplate. So he let his mouth drown out those sounds while not really knowing what he was talking about at all anymore.

Suddenly his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth. His gray eyes widened in disbelief as his heart stuttered. Those green eyes were open. They were empty and unfocused, but they were open!

Holmes next clear recollection was shouting for a doctor, a nurse, anyone that could prove he was not hallucinating. But, by the time someone arrived, the eyes had closed once again. Frowning darkly at hearing Holmes' babbling something about his comatose friend waking, Dr. Worth carefully pulled Watson's limp hand out from under the blanket. In seconds, his frown had cleared and something of a smile quirked his lips.

"His pulse rate has increased. He may very well be waking," the doctor informed him.

For several minutes Holmes could only stare blankly. When the doctor began to feel the discomfort of the silence combined with such a penetratingly keen pair of gray eyes, he nodded once and placed Watson's hand back beneath the blankets. Again Holmes found himself alone beside the bed of what he now almost dared to hope was his waking friend.

~o~o~o~

Following this, Holmes refused to leave. He showed blatant disregard for any form of policies or procedures they held within the hellish confines of this place of suffering. What did it matter to him if they had rules? He had Watson to consider. Besides, if he returned to his rooms at Baker Street now he was afraid he would wake to find that one moment of hope was nothing more than a dream.

But it wasn't.

Holmes spent the hours alternating between the occasional one-sided conversation of absolutely meaningless subjects, and silence. Often he was wrapped so thoroughly in his own thoughts he didn't notice the passage of time. But as the days continued to roll on by inexorably, Watson gave more and more signs of emergence from the coma. Sometimes his eyes would open. Other times his mustache would twitch or his brow would furrow. One time he even uttered a groan of pain that had Holmes once again fleeing the ward in search of a less than appreciative nurse in the late hours of the night.

Finally came the day those eyes opened and stayed open for more than a few seconds. They were still hollow and unfocused, but as the seconds ticked by and they did not close Holmes found himself battling a fear he did not want to put into words.

"Watson?" he asked, cursing the tremor in his voice.

The eyes blinked and then turned his direction. Those deep green orbs still did not focus, but at least there was some acknowledgement that he was aware on some level.

"Holmes?"

The relief at that curious, croaking voice creaking from disuse was enough that Holmes could not contain the smile that lit his face. In the bright, early morning sunlight of the ward it was all he could do not to make a spectacle of himself shouting with joy. Watson was awake! More importantly, he remembered!

"Good morning, dear fellow," Holmes greeting, forcing his voice to something distant and casual.

"Holmes?" Watson asked again, blinking rapidly. "Where..."

The first doubts began to creep into Holmes' mind as Watson freed a hand from beneath the blanket to rub at his eyes.

"You're in the hospital," Holmes informed him, suppressing the fear he was feeling.

"Why..."

As the hand fell away and Watson sat up suddenly, nearly toppling off the side of the bed Holmes jumped backward slightly startled. When Watson groaned and his face paled fearfully, Holmes quickly reached forward to steady him. Certain Watson was about to return to unconsciousness, he was surprised when his friend twitched away from him. Breathing rapidly and deeply, trying to force back the threatening unconsciousness, obviously, Watson shuddered before finally taking one deep breath and exhaling deliberately.

"Alright there, Watson?" Holmes asked, tentatively.

For a moment, Watson stared at his legs. Calm having returned to his features, he nodded slowly in acknowledgement to Holmes' question.

"What time is it?"

"It would be more appropriate to ask what day, dear chap," Holmes replied gently, not really certain how one tells a friend they've lost nearly a month of their life in a coma. "You were...you were in a coma."

"How long and what time is it?" Watson asked with more force, turning those unfocused green eyes penetratingly in Holmes' general direction.

"Twenty-seven days and ten minutes before nine in the morning."

Watson's eyes closed as if trying to conceal something behind that pained expression. Holmes suddenly felt a very deep certainty he was missing something. His friend again breathed deeply and deliberately as he forced his expression to smooth into something of a grin.

"How long have you been here?"

His face flushing, Holmes suddenly found the seat he'd been perched in for the last several days was deucedly uncomfortable. Clearing his throat, he shifted position. His mind formulated a number of evasive answers, though he could not fathom why.

"Five days."

Watson shook his head with something approaching bemusement. "Thank you."

Not understanding why Watson would be expressing any sort of gratitude, Holmes threw him a curious and questioning look. By this point Watson had turned his attention to the hands that he held very deliberately folded in his lap.

"What...what hospital?" Watson asked hesitantly, his face flushing.

"You don't recognize—"

"Holmes," Watson cut him off somewhat gruffly, "would you please fetch a doctor?"

"Watson?"

Watson again closed his eyes, a pained expression pinching his face for a moment. Holmes did not quite recognize that expression, as it did not reflect any physical pain that he could determine. Then the doctor did something that he was more than familiar with, and it did not sit well in Holmes' mind. He watched as Watson sat up straight, squaring his shoulders with all the military bearing that had been trained into him. Finally, that expression filled with determination and rigid control turned to him with those empty, unfocused eyes.

"I don't remember what happened, or how I came to be here. I cannot see anything. I would like to speak with a doctor, if you would be so kind."

Holmes felt the blood drain from his face as he took in those green, hollow eyes. The starkness of these statements had his heart stuttering for a moment. Without another word, he fled the ward doing just as his friend requested; if for no other reason than to deny Watson's claims.

~o~o~o~

Holmes' still reeling thoughts from these revelations had yet to calm themselves into something resembling order. His mind refused to accept what he had heard, what he could so clearly see for himself. He had brought back Dr. Worth who had frowned grimly. He watched in mute confusion and denial as the doctor inspected his friend, his head, his eyes. The two had traded some medical jargon Holmes' mind refused to interpret in the chaotic swirling panic of his thoughts. Finally Dr. Worth had patted Watson on the left shoulder in a way that was obviously meant to be comforting, but had only caused the man to wince painfully.

Then they were alone.

Watson was very deliberately keeping his face turned away from the detective he knew must be there. His thoughts had seemed to turn inward, though that rigid control of his expressions still belied the turmoil beneath.

"Five days," Watson said softly, jarring Holmes out of his contemplation.

"Yes," Holmes added, realizing that nodding was pointless.

"You've not slept, or likely eaten," Watson mused, as if to himself.

"No," Holmes replied hesitantly, wondering where his friend was leading with this.

"Then you should do so," Watson told him flatly. "Of course, I have an ulterior motive in the request."

Already having opened his mouth to protest for some reason he could not fathom, Holmes closed his mouth as he cocked his head curiously. "And what might that be?"

Watson forced a grin as he turned those sightless eyes back toward his friend. The expression, though Watson was not aware of it, was so half-hearted and false that it disturbed Holmes deeply. His friend was not one to be dishonest in any situation. To do so now seemed entirely out of character.

"Have you seen what they feed people here? I would dearly love some of Mrs. Hudson's cooking, if you would be so kind."

The pleading quality in his voice was enough to stir Holmes. In part, he knew Watson was sincere. But there was a greater part filled with fear that Holmes could not understand.

"Of course," Holmes answered quickly. "After all, I imagine you must be ravenous."

"Good man," Watson said distantly, turning his gaze back toward the windows, though he could not see them any more than he could see the morning light filtering through them.

Holmes shuddered visibly. He could not imagine being trapped in so much darkness. The very idea made him ill. And for it to be Watson...

Taking hold of himself, Holmes rose from his seat. "Very well, then. I shall be back shortly."

"Thank you."

These quiet words were filled with something Holmes could at last identify; and he did not like it one bit. Fear, confusion, loss, pain, hopelessness. Not sure what, if anything, he could say that would not either wound the doctor's obviously sensitive state, or sound completely meaningless, Holmes turned to walk back down the ward. Rounding the corner of the doorway, he spied a movement out of the corner of his vision. Stopping, he turned back toward that lonely figure of his friend on that last bed at the farthest end of the ward.

Watson had pulled his knees up to his chest as far as his war wounded leg would allow. Folding his arms atop his knees, he laid his head down atop them. He watched as his friend, his partner, fell apart silently. His shoulders shook as he fought for mastery of his emotions. Holmes could not tell if there were tears, but knowing Watson as he did, he suspected those eyes were dry. But the aura of vulnerability in that moment tugged at his heart in a way that he could not ignore. For a moment, Holmes found himself battling the urge to return to his friend's side.

Watson had sent him away so he would not be seen in such a vulnerable, openly emotional state. Returning now would only make things worse, and likely very uncomfortable for both of them. Much as he wanted to do something for that lone figure across the room, he could not ignore his own helplessness in the situation. He never had developed any skill at dealing with emotions; not his own, or anyone else's. And displays of emotion from others only served to remind him of his own deficiencies.

But then his mind reminded him he had a task, a request to fulfill. Nodding to himself, he turned and silently made his way down the corridors and out of the hospital.


	5. Chapter Four

**Chapter Four**

Not quite two hours later, Holmes returned to the same ward walking with much greater confidence than when he'd left. He was gratified to see the doctor was still awake, though staring sightlessly away from him toward the windows. Quickly he silenced the voice that had risen in fear at the idea that he would return to find his friend unconscious again. Vaguely he wondered if his friend could feel that bright, warm sunlight filtering through those nearby windows. Obviously Watson was lost somewhere in his thoughts, as he failed to notice Holmes' approach until he started slightly at the bag that was dropped onto the bed beside him. Holmes watched Watson's expression flit through confusion and fear briefly before he recovered his composure.

"Holmes?" Watson asked, his brow furrowing slightly.

"Of course, dear chap," Holmes replied, resuming his seat in the as yet unmoved chair. "I've spoken with Mrs. Hudson. She said she would be delighted to continue providing you with her wonderful cooking, as you appreciate it so very much. However, she's not in the habit of making trips to this part of the city and requests your presence back in our rooms on Baker Street."

Watson's expression had flitted through many varying emotions that displayed themselves so very clearly to Holmes before finally settling on something akin to regret and longing. He nodded, as if to himself.

"No."

Holmes blinked in confusion. This simple denial had a finality to it that crushed him in a way he was not willing to admit, even if only to himself.

"Whyever not?" he asked, putting pure confusion into his words instead of the helpless worry he now felt.

Watson cocked his head, those empty eyes so close to level with Holmes' own that it gave him the impression they were staring right through him. "Holmes, this isn't a broken bone or flesh wound that will heal in time. I am blind. I will have to re-learn even the simplest tasks you take for granted every day."

"Of course, and that is best done in familiar surroundings."

Watson shook his head, almost amused. "This may be true—"

"Did you not encourage your own patients suffering blindness after injuries in battle to return to their own families for support, despite their feelings of—"

"That's enough, Holmes," Watson said wearily. "There are schools for the blind. I will seek—"

"You feel helpless, of course. Your sense of sight has been removed, but other senses will be heightened to compensate—"

Watson's face flushed at being so easily read, but he was not about to allow Holmes to have the upper hand in this little argument. "I'm no expert, Holmes. But I've learned enough to know that this is not—"

"And what of your other faculties? Are they not otherwise intact?"

"I am a blind—"

"No! You will _not_ say it, and I refuse to accept that, from you of all people."

Holmes' statement effectively silenced the doctor. What use was there in arguing with a man who refused to accept the obvious? Worse, what use was there in arguing with a man who knew what you were going to say before you even opened your mouth? Watson slumped dejectedly. His mind tore through numerous scenarios of the potential disasters that awaited them should he return to Baker Street. He was convinced Holmes thought they would just resume their activities as if nothing had changed. Each image his mind conjured was worse than the one before. He would not put his friend through that.

"I'm sorry, Holmes," he said, staring emptily at the hands he knew were fidgeting in his lap restlessly. "While I appreciate this rare display of unfounded optimism from you of all people, there are certain practical matters that need to be taken into account."

"I apologize if my meddling is inconvenient to you, Dr. Watson. But I'm not in the habit of abandoning friends."

Holmes could not have anticipated the reaction he received to these words. He had not really been intending to speak them in the first place. But the moment they left his lips, he knew they were right. Watson's face snapped his direction so fast he wondered that the man's neck didn't crick. The wide-eyed surprise was soon transformed into something else entirely.

Watson's deep, heartfelt laughter at having his own words thrown back at him seemed entirely inappropriate to the setting. However, Holmes found the release of tension contagious. He contained his own to little more than chuckles, but felt his entire posture relaxing into that ridiculously uncomfortable chair. Once Watson had finally stifled his laughter down to chuckles, the smile still lingered.

"Touche."

Holmes nodded, accepting the victory graciously. He continued to watch Watson's expression as it at last took on something both hopeful and considering. At least now he wasn't rejecting the idea out of hand.

"There are, of course, concessions that will need to be made to accommodate these changes," Holmes offered, verbally prodding his friend into a response.

Watson nodded slowly. "Will you accept a compromise?"

Holmes considered this warily. "That would depend on the terms."

"I will return to Baker Street, _for now_. I have enough money to cover my share of the rent for three months. During that time we will see how things move along, for the_ both _of us. I am under no illusions that my...deficiency, if you wish...will be easily overcome or dealt with. Obviously I cannot perform as a doctor in any capacity—"

"Watson—"

"No, Holmes. You _will _hear me out and you_ will _accept my terms, or you may leave." Watson waited. When Holmes offered no further argument, he continued, "During this time, I agree to attempt to adjust and make the adjustments as painless as possible. I cannot promise that there will not be conflict, or repercussions. I will find ways of making myself useful once again while seeking other means of supporting myself financially. These things will...require your assistance. You must understand and accept—"

"That my friend is blathering on when Mrs. Hudson said lunch would soon be ready," Holmes interrupted, feeling the need to relieve his friend of at least some of the discomfort he was feeling at these open statements. "Of course, I accept your terms. Now, kindly stop worrying yourself over such—"

"There are _not _trifling matters!" Watson hissed angrily. "This is_ not _one of your pretty little problems you can solve with a—"

"I'm well aware of that, Doctor," Holmes cut in, unruffled. "This is your life. And I will not stand by and watch you mentally throw it away before you've even given a thought to the potential outcomes that might benefit us both."

This had the effect of once again silencing Watson's arguments. His shoulders slumped once more as he turned his sightless, green eyes away from the man who so masterfully worked his way around or through every argument he could present. He still did not like it. He still felt the flush that came to his cheeks when he considered how this would likely affect them both. It was enough that he had to suffer, but Holmes...

He could not deny his friend's sincerity. Whatever could he have done to earn such friendship, he would never understand. But, for all of Holmes' flaws, he was not one to be told anything. He would have to see for himself. Swallowing his fragile pride, Watson finally agreed. He nodded as he reached for the valise he knew Holmes had so unceremoniously dropped onto his bed only minutes ago.

"Excellent!" Holmes stated, releasing the last of his tension as his abdominal muscles unclenched. Standing, he turned toward the doorway to the ward saying, "I'll leave you to it, then, while I fetch a cab."

Watson, feeling a moment of panic at the sensation of abandonment, clutched the bag he was certain contained some of his clothing. He bit back his next words as he listened to Holmes' steady, energetic steps retreating down the row of beds. The hushed voices he heard a moment later had him relaxing slightly once more at realizing his friend had not forgotten his almost helpless state already. Within moments a nurse presented herself to guide him to where he could change into his clothes. His hands still trembled with barely contained fear as he faced his first real task as a blind man. He could almost wish Holmes was still there.

~o~o~o~

The second task of learning how to walk with more confidence than he obviously felt was one he found much easier when he finally allowed himself to relax. His first tentative steps, guided by a gentle hand on his arm from one who all but loathed human contact was one that inspired and encouraged trust. And that was what it all really came down to, in the end. He had to learn how to trust Holmes. He knew trust. He had both given and received trust. As a friend and doctor trust was something essential. He had given Holmes his nearly complete trust some time ago. But this...

Holmes quickly relieved him of the little bag he had been attempting to carry. Placing a gentle hand on his arm as if they were simply taking a stroll through the park, Holmes turned him about and then stepped forward slowly. He waited for the doctor to match his careful pace with a patience Watson would not have previously credited him. And, as Holmes began a steady stream of casual conversation on the goings on of London while Watson had been unconscious, Watson soon forgot himself or his uncertainty. Though Watson could not see it, Holmes was very nearly smiling openly as the doctor shed his fear and began walking at a normal, strolling pace down the corridors beside him.

Watson was almost startled at the level of noise outside. He hesitated only a moment as Holmes guided him down the few steps to the sidewalk and the impatiently waiting cab. He could not remember London, anywhere in London, that suddenly seemed to alive or so...loud. As he allowed Holmes to guide him up to and into the cab, Watson had to remind himself that he had spent a great deal of time in a quiet, hospital ward and it was just a matter of allowing himself to once more adjust to the world around him.

Of course, Holmes maintained his steady stream of meaningless chatter beside him as they rode swiftly back toward Baker Street. Watson found himself closing his eyes and grinning slightly at the sheer normalcy of the moment. With his eyes closed he could almost pretend...

"Are you quite alright, Watson?" Holmes asked worriedly, seeing his friend's eyes close and his brow furrow for a moment.

"Yes, Holmes," Watson shot back, surprised to find himself mildly irritated by having that moment interrupted. "Please, continue."

For a moment it seemed Holmes was at a loss. He didn't entirely believe the doctor, but there was no way to call his bluff. However, he had noticed a distinct difference in his friend's more relaxed demeanor as he continued spewing his random thoughts at his friend. Finally his mind latched onto another topic and he resumed his rapid speech, not really paying any attention whatsoever to where his words were taking him.

In Watson's opinion, they arrived at Baker Street far too soon. Suppressing a feeling not unlike a man facing an execution, he forced himself down and out of the cab as Holmes turned him in the direction of the door. Some part of Watson deep inside was clenching in fear as his heart raced. He questioned if he was really ready for this? What was he thinking coming back here?

"Dr. Watson!" Mrs. Hudson's voice greeted them as she threw the door open before Holmes had a chance to reach it. "It is so good to see you!"

"Good...afternoon, is it?" Watson started hesitantly.

"It certainly is now that you're back," she gushed happily, taking Watson by the arm and leading him into the foyer. "I will have lunch ready for you in a few minutes, Doctor, Mr. Holmes."

To his embarrassment, he found himself stumbling as he stepped into the small room. Holmes surreptitiously steadied him with a hand on his shoulder as he came to a halt.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," Watson murmured, an echo only slightly behind Holmes.

"Go on up and I will bring tea in a moment."

For a moment Watson froze, his heart in his throat. He was here. He was home. And suddenly he felt so completely out of place he had to suppress a shudder. Now he would have to negotiate the stairs. He was so disoriented already he couldn't remember where the stairs were. Panic began to grip him as he swallowed thickly, trying to remember the foyer he had walked through hundreds of times these last two years and more. What hope did he have of learning how to live here all over again when he couldn't even remember something to small and simple as—

"Come now, Watson," Holmes prodded gently, turning him a few inches slightly with a guiding hand on his arm. "I believe that was your stomach I heard growling in the cab. You..."

Holmes resumed his rambling words of mixed remonstrance filled with fondness and no small amount of encouragement as he all but pretended Watson had nearly completely frozen with a mask of obvious fear only moments before. As before, this seemed to shake something loose in his friend. Watson followed with only slight hesitation toward the first couple of stairs. While he continued to watch and speak of meaningless things, Watson again forgot himself and was striding confidently up the last half of the seventeen stairs entirely unaided. However, when the reached the landing Watson deliberately reached out to stop him.

Closing those sightless, green eyes Watson strode the few steps down the landing toward the door. Reaching out ahead of himself, he found the doorknob to the sitting room in his hand. Behind him, Holmes had fallen silent but was restraining a shout of triumph at this little display of independence from his friend. Those few moments in the foyer had disturbed him more than he cared to admit.

Watson hesitated for a heartbeat before finally turning the knob in his hand and allowing the sitting room door to swing open. Holmes took in his rigid posture and squared shoulders as Watson clenched his hands into fists at his sides. To all outward appearances, he was steeling himself for something unpleasant, though Holmes could not begin to understand what that could possibly be. Afterall, this was Watson's home. This sitting room should be a source of comfort.

"Is the furniture still the same, or have you done any recent rearranging?"

Understanding flooded Holmes mind. Watson was doing exactly as he had agreed. He was trying to adjust. Instead of stumbling around blindly, or allowing Holmes to lead him everywhere, he was trying to learn the layout for himself. He could not help the small sense of pride at his friend's renewed confidence in such a gesture so quickly performed.

"I believe the settee is now two inches closer to the fire. The fireside chairs, desk, and breakfast table are in their usual alignment. The shelves have been somewhat...reorganized," Holmes admitted, somewhat uncomfortably, as he knew Watson had his own filing method and did not care to have it altered. "The coffee table is now six inches closer to the desks."

Watson nodded. "That's enough to start, thank you."

"I will warn you if—"

"No," Watson told him stiffly before softening his tone. "A barked shin and a few bruises will serve as a reminder, I'm certain. Though, I should have asked if you had one of your walking sticks, handy..."

"Here," Holmes piped up cheerfully, happy to do anything to make this easier on his friend. "I had left this one just outside the door the other night."

Carefully, he handed it over to Watson's seeking hands. Testing the weight and length for himself, he must have found the greater length to his liking, for he smiled briefly. Extending it before himself, just barely sliding on the carpet, Watson took his first tentative steps into the sitting room. Holmes watched as he maneuvered cautiously around the back of the settee while reaching out with his free hand to briefly touch the wood to ensure he was in the correct position. From there he made his way past the little table and to his own fireside chair. Then he very deliberately turned himself around and held the walking stick up and out of his way as he carefully stepped around the settee and coffee table. He let his hand glide over the back of Holmes' desk chair before reaching out toward the breakfast table he knew could not be far ahead of himself. Nodding to himself, he found his chair and sat contentedly with his back to Holmes.

"Thank you."

"I believe congratulations would be in order?" Holmes offered, tentatively coming around the table to take his own seat.

Seeing the flush from neck to hairline on his friend's face, he found himself trying to back pedal verbally not entirely sure what he had done wrong.

"Relax, Holmes," Watson finally cut him off, his discomfort showing in every inch of his posture. "You are not wrong. I am just a little...sensitive, at the moment."

"Quite understandable," Holmes offered, relieved. "And, I believe that is Mrs. Hudson with the tea."

Moments later the woman herself appeared bearing a tray heavily ladened with tea and some of the doctor's favorite biscuits. She had no idea if he had eaten anything as yet. But, more importantly, she hoped he would convince Mr. Holmes to finally start eating again, himself.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," Watson said happily. "It smells delightful."

"My pleasure, Doctor. It is good to have someone back under my roof that appreciates my cooking with a good show of appetite. But don't ruin it on these, I've made your favorite stew and will be up with it shortly."

Even Holmes had to flash a brief grin at the woman's motherly nature. She knew exactly what to do in almost any situation, provided enough information. The idea that food would be another difficult task for the doctor—and a potentially embarrassing one for both of them—was not something Holmes had even considered yet. As he poured them both warm, soothing cups of tea, he wondered again at his landlady's hidden skills and perceptions. Stew would be relatively easy for Watson to consume without being too difficult on his stomach that had been deprived of solid substance for so long.

Carefully he handed over the less than full cup of tea as Watson's delicate, surgeon's hands probed for a few seconds to ensure he was able to grip the cup and saucer without dropping it. Holmes waited patiently for the man to adjust his grip and relieve the weight from his outstretched hand before releasing it. Transfer complete, he now watched closely as Watson brought the cup to his lips with little thought and probed further with his lips. Watson took a slow sip, relishing the flavor contentedly.

"Do I pass your examination?" Watson finally asked, his voice taking on a teasing quality.

Now it was Holmes' turn to flush scarlet to his hairline. He cleared his throat as he fumbled with his own cup of tea for a moment.

"I apologized, Doctor. I was not meaning to..."

Watson shook his head briefly, his features taking on a more serious countenance. "No, Holmes. I'm the one who should apologize. I suppose I should expect a certain level of...scrutiny. I know you mean well, but it is still deucedly uncomfortable."

"And that is different from any other day we've shared in these rooms?"

For a moment, Watson's mouth opened and closed as if he could not figure out what to say to that statement. Finally he smiled openly, chuckling softly.

"Quite right," he agreed. "I guess it just seems a little unfair that it is somewhat one-sided at present."

Holmes chuckled. "My dear Watson, have I ever told you that you possesses a gift for understatement?"


	6. Chapter Five

_**A/N: **Okay, this one took on a bit of a rambling feel, but it has been a long night. I was rather distracted while writing it. If it gets a bit redundant or needs to be cut back, someone please let me know. In the meantime..._

_**shell less snail: **You are too awesome and so very encouraging. Thank you so much!_

* * *

**Chapter Five **

One would think such a blessedly easy beginning would signify something more than a simple reprieve. But, Watson knew better. As he had expected, things had declined rather swiftly after that first afternoon and evening spent in the sitting room. Holmes had filled him in on how he came to be in his current condition. Though Watson could detect no hints of guilt in his friend's words, there was something else. Whatever this had been, his mind swiftly overrode with traitorous thoughts of blame. He knew, logically, that Holmes was not to blame. Yet, as he became more and more frustrated with each minor obstacle that first day, he could not help wanting to blame someone.

Stuffing his own pipe, lighting said pipe, locating his cup of tea, listening to Holmes ceaseless chatter with nothing of value to contribute... One thing after another totaled until he could feel his frustration mounting. Such simple things, simple gestures, he could not perform without some difficulty. And, to make matters worse, Holmes' uncharacteristic behavior left him desperately wanting to see his friend's face if only to assess his mental condition. Finally, as the clock chimed six o'clock, Watson had had enough. After sitting uselessly in his chair for some time, he stood to announce he was off to bed.

Holmes hesitated for a moment, uncertain what to do next. While it was not unusual for the doctor to retire early when tired, he had given no visible appearances of such. It seemed to him more that the man just wanted to escape his presence.

"Do you require—"

"No," Watson cut him off stiffly, turning his feet toward the sitting room door. "Good night, Holmes."

"Good night, Watson," Holmes returned dejectedly.

Somehow, he had done something wrong and he knew it. But those things Watson had enjoyed so very much were no longer available to him. In the evenings when they did not share conversation, often the man would read or work on his journals or their case notes or...

Holmes sighed heavily. Despite his firmly placed optimism, he was finally beginning to feel the first doubts. Alone with these dark thoughts, he curled up tightly in his chair. Now would begin the self-loathing he knew he deserved. How long before Watson would figure things out for himself? How long before Watson began to blame him and hate him for what he'd caused?

~o~o~o~

Having successfully negotiated the sitting room and then the flight of stairs up to his own room, Watson sighed with relief as he closed the door behind him. It was not that he didn't appreciate Holmes' efforts. But he just seemed so useless. There was nothing he could contribute. He could not see what chemical experiments in which Holmes had lately involved himself. He could not comment upon the local activities listed in the papers, as he had been unconscious for so long. And, he knew in the days to come the only way he would enjoy any parts of the papers that Holmes did not read for himself and comment upon would be to ask Holmes to read them to him. His mind rebelled at this, though it did at least offer him some possibility for entertainment.

For a moment he ran his hands over the personal journals that lined the little shelves above this second, smaller writing desk he had brought in shortly after his move to Baker Street. He could not even turn to those as a comfort or purging of the darker thoughts that now plagued his mind. He would never again write up the case notes.

He would not be able to help Holmes on his cases.

This thought disturbed him almost as much as the loss of his profession. So many words for the term useless flitted through his mind in that one moment that he found himself sagging onto the bed. Moments later that familiar anger and rebelliousness that had served him good stead in the past rose up to combat these depressing thoughts. He may feel useless now, but he _would_ find a way to prove to himself and Holmes that he was not.

His mind made up once more, Watson turned his attention to his next task. He had successfully managed walking, climbing stairs, drinking tea, and even eating lunch and dinner without entirely embarrassing himself. Now he would simply have to locate some night clothes and his dressing gown and slippers. He closed his eyes for a moment in concentration again re-orienting himself with his surroundings. He very nearly laughed at himself at such a ridiculously habitual gesture. This having effectively relieved himself of some of his fear and tension, he set about undressing and redressing himself for the night.

Though it was far earlier than he was accustomed to turning in, he really _had_ needed to escape the sitting room. He doubted he would sleep much this first night, but at least he was alone now to explore his thoughts. Aside from that few minutes in the hospital where he'd allowed himself to be nearly swept away by his fear earlier that morning—_had it really only been that morning?—_he had put away most of his thoughts to focus on the tasks at hand.

Crawling into bed, he wondered briefly if he'd even remembered to turn up the gas when he'd entered. To his surprise, he was soon sleeping; his fears set aside for another day.

~o~o~o~

When Watson woke from images of blood and violence into complete darkness, he only barely managed to choke back a scream. Biting his tongue painfully in the process really did not help his sense of disorientation, confusion, or fear. Swiftly he tried to sort out his thoughts as he reached up to rub his eyes. Cursing himself silently, he dropped his hand once more. After a week, he should be used this by now. But it was always the same. He would wake from his nightmares to find another one awaiting him.

And it was not one so easily banished.

Dropping his head in his hands, he sat for several minutes trying to process all of this. He gave his sleep-fogged mind time to catch up. He had no idea what time it was. And, only by waiting for some time to hear the hall clock chiming would he know for certain. Blessing his new-found sense of heightened hearing, he waited patiently. He'd already learned that his sleeping habits—or lack thereof—could prove most aggravating and inconvenient to others. There had been one night already when he'd gone rummaging about his drawers and wardrobe for clothes for himself only to have Holmes inform him—with some humor, at least—that nothing he had chosen came anywhere near to matching. Despite his friend's attempts at humor, Watson had stormed back to his room and closed the door behind himself with a satisfyingly loud slam.

Though it was entirely unfair to Holmes, Watson had fumed for the better part of a day over this. When Holmes finally came up to inform him lunch was ready, Watson had only reluctantly admitted him into this private sanctum. Ignoring the tantrum from earlier, Holmes had set about handing him clothes. And, from that day on, Holmes had made a point of slipping up to Watson's room at some point or another throughout the day to pull out a change of clothes and leave them on the chair at the desk. Night-clothes were set out on the bed covers.

That much had been easy.

The other, more embarrassing tasks had yet to be truly mastered. Though Holmes often went out of his way to accommodate his friend, Watson could not help feeling the discomfort and impatience. He was ready to move on to start learning new things, not re-learn old. He was ready to do more than lay about his room or the sitting room as so much wasted flesh.

He was tired of Holmes being so damnably patient with him.

He chuckled at this thought, almost missing the three chimes from the clock downstairs. Struggling to force his mind out of these dark thoughts, Watson tossed back the sheets and turned to an activity he had thought he'd abandoned after his relatively recent recovery from his war wounds. Pacing cautiously back and forth, he felt at least somewhat calmed by the repetitive motion of his legs. In the past it had been a release of nervous energy after a particularly disturbing dream. Or, he had used it as a way to build his stamina as his leg continued to heal. Tonight, it did not serve either of those purposes as he found himself cursing softly under his breath, growing only more agitated.

He'd been cooped up in this house for a week. Though Holmes had encouraged him to go for walks, Watson could not see himself doing so just yet. He still felt Holmes' eyes on his every move, and Mrs. Hudson's. The idea of so many other eyes watching him was absurdly paranoid, but that was how he felt. His sense of helplessness grew with every task he found he could not perform for himself. Something as simple and typically private as shaving had him trembling with fury at his own uselessness.

Right before he'd broken down and asked Holmes in a less than polite manner to help him.

His trust in Holmes was not really in question. The man had shown a level of patience that Watson would never have expected. But, in his own mind, it made it all the more frustrating. Always before he had at least been able to judge to some extent his friend's moods by those minute changes in expression and facial features. Now he did not even have that. He had only Holmes' cool, gentle, clearly controlled voice and that was not nearly enough. It just rubbed him the wrong way each and every time he caught Holmes using on him what he considered a voice reserved for their more hysterical clients. Based on his own feelings, Holmes had to be running out of patience and probably bordering on disgust for his flatmate's deficiencies. Why would the stubborn man not just show it and be done with the whole blasted mess?

Watson's pacing ceased as another sound caught his attention. He had not heard anything before that would indicate anyone else in the house was up and about. But as the first, almost tentative notes drifted up to him from Holmes' violin, he found himself relaxing reflexively. It was not the first time Holmes had used the violin to comfort or soothe Watson in his own, indirect way. But there was something different to Watson's keener ears. After listening for a few minutes, Watson sighed heavily and stifled the last of his frustration.

Throwing on his dressing gown and forgoing slippers altogether, he left his bedroom to join Holmes in the sitting room. Putting aside his personal feelings, he was surprised to find he was not pleased with the idea that he had once again woken his friend in his pacing. In the past, he had actually enjoyed the excuse to come down to the sitting room and find at least silent companionship. Tonight, he just wanted to be alone with his thoughts.

The slightest movement of the sitting room door, soft as it was even to Watson's own ears brought the violin and its owner to an abrupt halt. Based on this, Watson knew Holmes had been watching the sitting room door.

"I'm sorry, Watson. Did I wake you?"

Playing along with this all too familiar routine, Watson waved off Holmes' concern. "Not at all. Please, continue."

After a moment of deliberation, Holmes apparently decided to discard the slow, almost melancholy tune he had started before. Taking up one of Watson's favorites with a more enthusiastic sound, he turned his back to his friend as he settled on the settee nearby. Pacing slightly before the cold fireplace, Holmes continued playing a few things as if to ward off his thoughts.

"That's enough, Holmes," Watson finally spoke softly.

Holmes had, at first, been somewhat surprised by how softly Watson now spoke most of the time. It was not the distant, distracted whisper he had used in the past. It was as if his friend's more sensitive hearing had been offended by the sound of his own voice. However, this had the effect of gaining Holmes' attention more swiftly than any shout from his friend ever had in the past. Instantly his bow stopped as he turned to his friend. Watson sat back on the settee, his eyes closed. But the frown and furrowing brow left him in no doubt as to Watson's mood.

"Put it away," Watson instructed, somewhat gruffly.

Holmes felt his eyebrows shoot nearly into his hairline in surprise. How had he offended Watson this time, he wondered? Sighing heavily, Holmes did as he was instructed.

"Have I offended you in some way?" he finally found himself asking.

"Not at all, but you were not playing for your benefit. Therefore it seemed rather a waste of energy."

Taken aback by this blunt statement, Holmes could not help cocking his head in curiosity. "How so?"

"You performed flawlessly, as ever. But your heart was not in it. There was nothing behind it. They were just notes."

Holmes watched Watson's cheeks color slightly as he struggled to explain his thoughts. He smiled in pleased surprise. Apparently Watson's ear for more than just background sounds had most definitely improved.

"I agree with your assessment," Holmes said warmly. "But, it seemed appropriate at the time."

"You would not be entirely wrong," Watson agreed hesitantly. As if making up his mind, he turned his sightless eyes to the ceiling with a heavy sigh. "You do not have to entertain me, Holmes."

Now Holmes felt his own cheeks color at being so transparent. He still did not feel ready for this. But he knew it would have to come sooner or later.

"I'm sorry."

Watson's bark of a humorless laugh startled him as he was curling into his chair. For a moment, that dark shadow flitted across his mind that he had been desperately trying to avoid when in Watson's presence. Not surprisingly, Watson turned those empty green eyes directly at him making him feel pinned to his chair. He squirmed uncomfortably, knowing he was about to finally have the confrontation he'd been dreading all this time. Part of his soul recoiled at the anger and even outright hatred he expected to find.

"Did you hit me over the head with a pipe?"

Again Holmes was surprised by his friend's occasionally blunt nature. Taken aback by this question, he hesitated. "No."

"Did you deliberately lead me along that night with the intention of seeing me come to harm?"

"Of course not," Holmes snapped.

"Then what, pray tell, _did_ you do that makes you feel so horribly guilt-ridden over my current condition?"

Curled in on himself, Holmes almost wished he had some sort of shield or buffer against his friend's rising ire. His lack of response was apparently answer enough in itself. Watson pushed himself off the settee and began to pace the little strip between the coffee table and the settee.

"When was the last time you took a case?"

Holmes had to think.

"What makes you feel so responsible for me?"

Holmes opened his mouth.

"Why don't you just—"

"Enough," Holmes cut him off before he could persist in these pointless questions.

Watson stopped pacing, once again gazing at his friend. Seeing he had Watson's attention, Holmes finally uncurled himself from his chair. Rising to face Watson directly, he was going to put himself in the perfect position for any retaliation his friend felt appropriate.

"I don't have all the answers you're seeking, Watson. But—"

"I'm blind, Holmes, not mentally incapacitated!"

"Have I accused you of such?" Holmes grated out through clenched teeth, trying to keep his temper.

"There, that's better," Watson said with a smirk, sitting himself back on the settee.

Dumbfounded, Holmes stared for a moment before joining his friend on the settee.

"At least now you're admitting to something other than guilt," Watson clarified.

Again, Holmes could only stare as he tried to recall his own feelings upon these matters the last week they had been dancing around one another. He had done everything possible to keep from losing his temper, to giving in to his own frustration. And now it seemed that was exactly what his friend was wanting.

"I did not agree to returning to Baker Street to watch you consume yourself with guilt, Holmes," Watson continued. "You have done little other than feel sorry for yourself, or entertain me for seven days. I'm sorry, dear chap; but even if you can find the patience for such, I cannot. I am not ungrateful for your efforts, I assure you. I am, however, concerned that you're allowing this to interfere with your own life. It's time you and I both sought something besides dancing around one another in this little charade."

"Charade?" Holmes queried softly.

"Yes, charade. While we have both made concessions to the changes, you have done absolutely nothing in the way of returning to your normal routines. If I am to make a clear decision on my future—wherever that may be—I need to know where I stand. You pride yourself on rational thinking and logic. _You_ tell _me_ how it makes sense for the two of us to continue as we have."

This rare turnabout in their positions amused Holmes now. It was not often he found himself countered by Watson with logical thinking when he tended to be the one always arguing in favor of instinct and emotionalism. But, he did have to admit that his friend's clouded thinking often brought an extra element to their discussions that Holmes had appreciated; especially when it broadened his own thinking to encompass things he could not, himself, understand.

"You are correct, of course," Holmes agreed, his amusement coming through.

"Now, going back to my original questions. Do you truly have some reason for the guilt you're trying so hard to counter openly? As I do not remember, I am relying on your judgment."

He had no need to think back on that night. It had played itself over and over in his mind every day since. Though he had only given Watson the barest of facts. Maybe...

"Holmes?"

The thinly stretched patience in Watson's voice was enough to stir his thoughts into their proper order. "No."

"Is there some specific reason you feel the need to use up every last ounce of your patience on me?" he asked, with a quirk of his lips to soften the blow.

"No."

"Then I fully expect you to begin taking clients once more. You have stated for yourself that there are chemical experiments you wish to pursue. And, I have no doubts that there are a variety of other ways in which you can spend your time. But, above all, I expect you to be honest with me. If I wear on your obviously considerable patience, _tell me."_

"Whyever would I do something so completely normal and human?" Holmes countered, allowing his humor to show.

He was rewarded with a sincere chuckle from his friend that quickly lightened his heart. "Very well, then. If you wish to play the part of an unfeeling machine, far be it from me to argue. It does, afterall, work very much to my advantage. But, just so you know, I expect you to at least be honest, if not demonstrative.

"Now, if you don't mind. I believe I will return to my own perusal of such thoughts in the comfort of my bedroom."

"Are you certain you would not rather join me for a walk? I find I am rather restless this early morning."

Watson opened his mouth to reject the idea more out of reflex than any sort of serious consideration on his part. However, Holmes didn't give him a chance. He suddenly found Holmes' hand latched around his arm, guiding him toward the sitting room door.

"If I am to resume some semblance of normal activities, than so should you, Doctor. I will meet you in the sitting room at your leisure."

Cornered, Watson could only frown. He still did not feel ready for this. But, only moments ago he had given such sage advice to his friend. A number of excuses flitted through his mind as he tried to find an escape. But, ultimately, he could not expect Holmes to resume normal duties and activities if he, himself, was not willing to do the same. He felt the knot of tension in his gut relaxing as two things occurred to him simultaneously while he ascended the stairs to his bedroom. The lack of people on the streets at this ridiculously early hour, and the fact that with Holmes beside him he felt he could face those people and their unseen stares.

The fact that Holmes had not abandoned him yet was one he had not even allowed himself to entertain. Voicing that thought, even to himself, had been a terrifying prospect he was unwilling to face. Now, he realized, he never had to worry about such again. If Holmes had not abandoned him by now, it never would happen. Warmed and comforted by these thoughts, he happily dressed himself to the best of his abilities and returned to the sitting room to let Holmes make any adjustments. His trust secure, his mind at ease, and a great deal of his discomfort removed, he smiled in a way that set Holmes' own concerns to rest as they exited the house arm in arm.


	7. Chapter Six

_**A/N:** Sorry for the short chapter. Rough start here tonight. Things will pick up more in the next chapter, I promise. _

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**Chapter Six **

At first, Watson's steps had once again reverted to being fearfully hesitant as they exited their front door. This time Holmes refused to be the one to take the initiative. He kept a steady hand on Watson's arm and kept his silence. It was going to be up to Watson to determine their course, vocally or otherwise. For half a block, Watson still shuffled his feet and lagged behind even their normal relaxed pace. Holmes could read the tension growing in Watson's features as he struggled to find his orientation and sense of confidence all over again. He very nearly bit his tongue with impatience before Watson finally broke the silence himself.

"It is dark, most people have not begun their day yet. The streets are relatively empty," Watson spoke, as if to himself. "We are heading...north, I would say. Am I correct, thus far?"

"Yes," Holmes said somewhat tightly, disappointed with Watson's simple observations, but curious nonetheless.

Then Watson did something unexpected. With a deliberate shake of his arm, he forced Holmes to release his grip. Casually sweeping his walking stick in what appeared to be a deliberate attempt to conceal his inability to see, Watson strode forward confidently.

"Come along, Holmes," he called over his shoulder, the humor clear in his voice.

Holmes caught up to him within a couple of steps and made no attempts to further assist as his friend continued his longer, more confident strides now bearing only a hint of a limp. Keeping his peace, he followed along side of Watson watching closely to any potential obstacles. They strolled along casually in silence for a few blocks. Holmes allowed his own mind to drift somewhat as there was little danger, save for—

"Watson—"

"Lamp post," Watson called out at the same time, tapping it confidently with his stick.

He flashed Holmes a quick grin as he turned them right onto Marylebone toward Regent's Park. His confident steps continued as he lead them down the blocks while the sky began to take on a brighter hue of false dawn. Of course, with the sun came more people. Holmes found himself growing nervous. However, when Watson detected footsteps other than his own or Holmes' he halted, stepping toward the right and out of the way. He waited patiently for the lone pedestrian to pass.

"Is there a problem, Holmes?" Watson asked, amusement coloring his almost excited features.

Only then did Holmes realize he had once again taken hold of Watson's arm at some point. He chuckled to himself.

"My apologies, Watson."

"Perhaps you're needing a distraction. What are your observations this morning?"

Holmes snorted. This deliberate attempt to take his mind off his concern for Watson's first venture out since returning from the hospital was perhaps not the most subtle, but definitely the most effective. Watson, obviously, was performing most of this little walk through memory. Every so often Holmes would see Watson's hand or walking stick move to touch something as if confirming for himself where he was. Though he knew Watson was listening with less than half an ear, he did as requested and commented upon what he could see to fill in the gaps for Watson.

As they approached the Park, the sun finally broke the horizon. Holmes found himself striding forward a couple steps before realizing Watson had stopped. Curious more than concerned at this point, he turned back toward his friend. Watson's stick dropped to the ground as his hands came up to cover his eyes. His heart leaping into his throat, Holmes gripped his friend by the shoulders.

"Watson?"

For a moment Watson didn't answer as he forced himself to breathe slowly and evenly. Holmes only waited a matter of seconds before pulling those hands away to find Watson's face deathly pale and pinched in obvious pain.

"Headache," Watson finally grated, between clenched teeth. "Not like...others."

Watson's hands came up again to grip the sides of his head, his eyes still shut tightly. His breathing took on a panting quality. A fine sheen of sweat had broken out on his forehead.

"Watson, can you tell me—"

One trembling hand came up to silence Holmes as Watson shook his head. "Home."

Without another word, Holmes turned them around. With an arm around Watson, he carried their walking sticks in the other. Watson's hands continued to alternate between rubbing his head and gripping it. Only a block away from their front door, Watson's faltering steps turned away. Holmes by this point was only barely managing to contain his concern, torn between wanting to get his friend to safety and fetch the nearest doctor. Watson had had several headaches in the last few days. He had explained that it was not an uncommon side effect of any head injury. But this was something completely different.

As he watched helplessly, Watson leaned one hand toward the wall for support as he leaned over and retched. The other hand continued to grip his head. When it seemed Watson was about to collapse right there, Holmes finally dropped the sticks altogether to grip him about the waist. When the vomiting finally dwindled to dry heaving, Holmes once again tried to turn his friend back toward their rooms.

"Almost there, dear chap. Just a few more—"

Watson whimpered as a cab passed by just then. His trembling legs finally refused to obey, just as they reached their front door.

"Watson," Holmes hissed fearfully, trying to get him the last few feet into the foyer.

"Loud..." Watson whispered, still gripping his head and covering his ears.

Once inside, Holmes knew he would not be able to get his friend up that flight of stairs short of carrying him. However, his greater fear was a need for a doctor. Blessing Mrs. Hudson's early habits, he knocked on her door, hearing Watson wince behind him. Quickly he explained the situation and she disappeared back into her rooms.

"Watson?"

"Please..." Watson begged, his face contorted with pain. "Quiet."

Lowering his voice to a whisper, Holmes explained the situation. He wasn't sure anymore how much the doctor was still aware of his surroundings. Not really caring, he steadied his grip around Watson's waist and lead them up the stairs. This was apparently too much for him, as Watson had only made it up three stairs before he collapsed completely in Holmes' grip, whimpering helplessly with pain and still dry heaving occasionally. Holmes only barely managed to contain his panic and keep them both from toppling back down into the foyer. Behind him, he heard the front door open and close as Mrs. Hudson headed out to get Dr. Cummings.

Adjusting his grip once more, Holmes carefully dragged Watson up the stairs and to his own bedroom door. It was the closest room, and the quietest when there were not visitors in the sitting room. His friend's sudden sensitivity to sound had outright frightened him. He had, of course, heard of such things in his medical studies, but witnessing this level of pain an distress in his flatmate was something else completely. To see Watson reduced to such a state...

After what felt like an eternity, he managed to lift the doctor onto his bed. Making as little noise as possible, he pulled up a chair and sat waiting anxiously for Dr. Cummings. Cursing his own lack of knowledge and helplessness, he could only watch as his friend continued to writhe in pain.

~o~o~o~

Dr. Cummings had immediately banished Holmes and Mrs. Hudson to the sitting room. Holmes had only barely managed to resist the urge to pace, as he knew any sound might further aggravate his friend's condition. His heart still pounding with fear, he curled himself in the chair closest to the door and waited.

It was only some thirty minutes later Dr. Cummings entered the sitting room closing the door softly behind himself. He raised a hand to silence Holmes before waving toward the door to the hallway. Holmes allowed Dr. Cummings to lead them back down the stairs into the foyer. Only when they were far enough away that soft speech would likely not travel up to Holmes' bedroom, did the doctor at last address him.

"He is resting, though not very peacefully. He is suffering a migraine. From what I understand, it was very sudden?"

Holmes nodded once.

Dr. Cummings sighed. "I can only assume this is another side effect of the trauma he has suffered. I have given him a mixture that will help ease the pain. But there is little else to be done. Sleep is the best thing for him now. If he is still in considerable pain when he wakes, the powder can be mixed in a glass of water and ingested immediately. If he is unable to keep it down, add some ginger."

"I understand," Holmes confirmed. "Thank you, Doctor."

Dr. Cummings only nodded before letting himself out to see to the rest of his patients. Knowing the torments Watson faced when asleep, especially drugged sleep, Holmes quickly and silently ascended the stairs once more. He was happy to see his friend's pinched features at least somewhat relaxed as he was apparently sleeping. Relieved, Holmes again resumed his seat in the chair beside the bed and waited for the nightmares to begin.

~o~o~o~

Watson woke to the same darkness he had finally begun to accept. But that was the only thing that felt right at this point. The smell of the blankets, the feel of the bed, the way the sounds echoed faintly off the furniture. His head throbbed mildly. His disorientation quickly turned into panic when he realized he was not alone. The sound of a body shifting so close beside him had him sitting bolt upright in the bed.

"Easy, Watson," Holmes whispered, laying a comforting hand on his friend's arm.

"Holmes?" Watson asked, confused. "Why am I in your room?"

The hesitation in Holmes' response spoke of fear. "You don't...remember?"

Irritated with his own lack of understanding and disorientation, Watson grunted as he turned to face his friend. "I know I have a tendency to state or even ask the obvious, Holmes. But I would not be asking you something to which I already know the answer. And why are you whispering?"

Holmes gave an irritated humph of his own. "You had a migraine, Doctor," he finally said, raising his voice to a more normal volume.

The irritation suddenly transformed into understanding on Watson's face. "We were walking."

"Yes."

"I'm sorry, dear fellow. I don't mean to take out my frustrations on you. How long was I asleep?"

"A little more than eighteen hours," Holmes informed him, letting go of some of his own irritation.

His concern of the last hours had not lessened in the least as Watson had slept peacefully. That undisturbed sleep had wound his nerves into a near fit of tension as he began to wonder if his friend had once again slipped into a coma. It was the only other time he had seen his friend sleep thus. Loath to disturb that rest, however, he had decided to give it one day before checking on his friend himself. Only now, as Watson displayed signs of a normal headache and some expected disorientation mixed with irritation did he begin to allow those taut nerves to unwind.

Watson seemed to consider these things for a moment. "Dr. Cummings?"

"Yes."

"You've been here the whole time?"

"Yes."

Watson's smile eased the last of his tension. "For someone who claims to know nothing of proper social behavior in certain situations, you really do quite well, dear chap."

Rather uncomfortable with this unexpected praise, Holmes rose from his chair taking Watson by the arm. He lead them back to the dark sitting room where he could finally have a desperately needed pipe. Stuffing and lighting one for Watson, he settled comfortably in his own chair as Watson did the same. For a time they sat quietly in the darkness simply enjoying each other's company.

Though the entire episode had disturbed and concerned him, Holmes was not about to voice his thoughts. He had agreed to Watson's terms. Watson himself, as a doctor, would have to make his own assessment of the situation and decide accordingly. If this "side effect" of his head injury were to become a regular occurrence, it could significantly reduce his adaptability to his new limitations.

_Doctor._

He let the word drift through his mind. How many times would he have to remind himself that Watson was no longer a doctor? For all his knowledge and experience, the man could not effectively perform his duties in any sort of medical capacity. Was he really fit to judge his condition and circumstances? Had his friend really taken the time to seriously consider the other "side effects" of such an injury? How much had he been hiding? He had claimed there were no other effects, but then this morning had proved otherwise.

"I'm sorry."

This quiet apology shook Holmes out of his dark musings. "Whatever for?"

"I had expected the headaches. But this was...different. I recall everything, now. But I cannot explain the cause. I dislike you worrying. It was not your fault."

Relieved his friend had not somehow managed to read his thoughts—paranoid as that idea was—Holmes waved off his apologies. "Think nothing of it. You said yourself that you are not an expert in the field. If it happens again, we have the required items to deal with it."

"Nonetheless, I apologize."

"Not needed."

Accepting this, Watson finished his pipe in silence. Holmes put aside his thoughts as well to consider more pleasant matters. While watching over Watson's sleep, he had received some posts and telegrams. Uncertain as to his friend's condition or how long it would persist, Holmes had declined tentatively in the hopes he would soon be able to accept clients once more. He had not realized for himself how much the lack of mental stimulation and activity had worn on him until he had been allowed to seriously consider resuming his own, more normal activities per Watson's instructions.

He was about to ask Watson his thoughts on the matter and if he might be up to a visitor tomorrow in the form of a client when a soft snore caught his attention. Again his friend was sleeping. With something akin to fondness, Holmes fetched a blanket off of his bed. Settling back into his own chair, he resumed his briefly interrupted vigil.


	8. Chapter Seven

_**A/N: **Thank you for that suggestion, **shell less snail**! I hadn't really entertained that idea, though I did at one point have an image of Watson and a kitten the other day drift through my head. lol You probably don't want to know. _

_And, to be perfectly honest, I'm writing this entire story on the fly. I have no real outline, no general idea where it's going to go, or where the characters are taking me. I'm learning what this story is about as I go along. The only real difference, is that I get to learn while I'm writing while all of you get to learn a few hours after me when you read it. Hopefully I don't run into any continuity issues. But, if I do, please feel free to let me know! _

* * *

**Chapter Seven**

Watson did not sleep long. Though he had no idea what time it was, the level of discomfort he was in quickly alerted him to both his surroundings and the fact that he hadn't slept long enough to feel the indentations of his chair. However, the soft snoring from the chair across from him let him know that Holmes was finally sleeping. Quietly as he could manage, he rose from his chair and crept forward with the blanket to drape it over Holmes, never doubting the man had not bothered to do so for himself. Though Holmes shifted somewhat restlessly, he did not wake.

Happy to be alone with his thoughts for a while, he turned his steps toward the sitting room door and to his bedroom. He could hear Mrs. Hudson moving around below so he could guess that the sun was up at least. Letting his thoughts drift back to the events of yesterday, he was surprised to realize he was more irritated with his own weakness than any real concern for the possibility of a reoccurrence. Wondering if this was just some form of denial or another effect of his head wound, he brushed off his growing depression. He freshened himself up as much as he could on his own and sat for a moment in the chair at his little writing desk wondering what to do next.

For a few moments, he just let the world around him drift away. He let his mind wonder where it willed. This was something he really had not allowed himself since his return from the hospital. The encroaching panic and fear had been deterrent enough. He knew the depression creeping around the edges of his consciousness was soon to follow. Sooner or later, he would have to face the emotional aspects of his loss. Focusing on the physical had kept him busy until now. But it would not take long for Holmes to begin taking cases.

What would he do with himself, then?

Would Holmes start taking clients today?

Would he expect Watson to assist in whatever capacity he could?

Shaking off these questions and their possible answers for when the time came to deal with them directly, he shifted in his chair. Briefly he wondered what to do with himself. He knew Holmes had not been getting much sleep lately, and was needing the rest. Considering his limited options, Watson rose from his chair and headed toward the door.

Oh how he missed his journals now. At least with those he could while away the hours sketching or writing...

Watson's hand froze on the doorknob as an idea struck him. Two voices began clamoring for attention in his head. One was quite obviously his own. The other sounded suspiciously like Holmes.

_It's possible, but would take patience and practice. _

_ Absolutely not. Blind people can't use something as simple as pen and paper. There are typewriters for that!_

_ But I do not have the money for one. And I would still need to learn Braille to use it._

_ So, have Holmes get you started, since he seems so very willing. _

_ But what is wrong with simply trying?_

_ Because it will not work. You cannot see what you are writing and—_

Watson silenced these voices. Blessing the privacy of this little room and the fact that he'd thought to have a desk put in, he turned back toward the row of little journals. What else did he really have to do with his morning? The worst that was likely to happen is a mess of unreadable pages and some ink splotches. At the very least, it would probably provide Holmes with some entertainment when he discovered Watson's recent activities.

Then again, he really didn't want Holmes perusing his personal thoughts even so much as to verify if the idea was working at all. Rolling up his sleeves, Watson pulled out a fresh journal. Setting his pen and ink in exact locations he practiced. Holding the open journal with one hand and his pen in the other, he began a series of repetitive motions mimicking the move from ink bottle to page and back again. He kept this up until he was certain he could do this without thinking, as he had always done.

Now oriented, he opened the ink bottle. For several minutes he stared down at the blank pages as if he could will himself to see. But he still had not answered the question of_ what _to write. He'd lost count of how many times he found himself wishing to write down his thoughts, his feelings, his experiences in the last several days. And again his mind recoiled at the idea of having Holmes read even a single line of his personal journals just to verify that he was writing legibly.

Then another idea came to mind.

Watson very nearly dropped his pen. It was impossible. There was no possible way the solution to so many problems could be _that _simple. Watson felt his hand trembling with excitement at the possibilities. Very deliberately, he set down the pen, closed the journal, and sat back in his chair. Turning his thoughts over in his head, he let the voices he'd heard earlier battle it out. After listening to all sides of the argument and considering all of the possible outcomes, he decided he really had nothing to lose but some respect and an already suffering pride.

Finally, nearly two hours after sitting at his desk, he began.

First he scribbled what he thought to be a decent title.

_What next?_

He nearly froze, almost ready to turn away from the idea. Battling his own hesitation, he once again forced his mind to order. By this point, he'd already lost his place. He couldn't remember the exact location of that title or what size. Frustrated, he ripped out the page. Dipping his pen, he started again. The title he placed at the top of the page, his finger from his other hand marking his spot. Using this as a reference point and gauging the size of his script, he wrote a line. He dipped his pen in the inkpot.

Realizing he'd forgotten to use his other finger to mark his spot and he was lost again, he ripped out another page. Tamping down his rising frustration, he started again. This process continued to repeat itself as he either found he didn't like what he had written or had lost his spot. He had begun to think he was needing to go back to something simpler like simply writing his name over and over again until he could remember to keep track of his place.

Some indeterminate amount of time later, his latest effort—some four pages long, at this point—was interrupted by a knock on his bedroom door. Knowing if he didn't answer, Holmes was likely to let himself in, Watson found himself scrambling to cover his recent attempts at something blind people weren't supposed to be doing without—

"Watson?"

Too late, Watson cursed himself. In the light of day, there was no way Holmes missed the fact that he was sitting at his desk surrounded by what was likely an unholy mess of ink blotched and stained wadded papers. Slumping his shoulders for a moment trying to come to terms with the inevitable humiliation to follow, Watson set aside his pen.

"Yes, Holmes?" he asked gruffly, not turning around.

"I'm sorry, dear fellow," Holmes started hesitantly, certain by his friend's demeanor he had just interrupted at a very inconvenient time.

Watson heaved a sigh and squared his shoulders. Turning to face Holmes, he stifled his rising emotional tide and prayed his face wasn't as flaming red as it now felt. "Is there something you need?"

"Mrs. Hudson said she would have lunch ready soon and I—I was wondering if you would care to join me. I have some things I would like to discuss."

By this point Watson was certain Holmes had taken in every detail of the room and what he had been attempting. Biting back some rather ungentlemanly comments that were entirely unwarranted at this point, as Holmes had very deliberately not asked, he rose from his desk.

"Of course," he said, gathering his remaining dignity for the inevitable. "I've been...experimenting. Have I made as much of a mess as I suspect?"

Apparently Holmes was not sure how to react. He could tell for himself what Watson was up to, but not why. Seeing the rather extreme amount of discomfort had him more than a little curious. He was having to throttle his curiosity as he knew that something as simple as attempting to write in one of his journals would never have left him so discomfited.

"There is a certain amount of ink on your hands, but not too terribly much. However, there is a considerable sum of paper about your floor. Have you taken to experimenting with my own filing system today, Watson?"

This display of humor he had hoped would ease some of the doctor's discomfort. But, he could not help the question that slipped in there that he hoped would produce something of an answer to satisfy his curiosity. Instead, Watson cleared his throat uncomfortably, still rigid in his posture. Then he suddenly deflated. With a nervous chuckle, he flopped back down into his chair.

"Considering your filing system appears one created by a blind man, I suppose that answer would suffice," he finally shot back.

Relaxing somewhat himself, Holmes leaned on the door frame. "You do, of course, understand that we agreed to resume normal activities? I'm having some difficulties understanding why this makes you so uncomfortable at the moment. Is there something I can do to help? I have begun to look into typewriters for the blind. I could see about acquiring one if that would be easier for you."

This rather lengthy, though hesitant speech from his friend did nothing to dispel his mounting fear. Certain he was about to humiliate himself utterly, Watson decided to get this part out of the way before Holmes did something so completely, selflessly helpful. Reaching around delicately behind himself, Watson pulled out the journal and handed it to Holmes.

"It's not my journal. At least, not the content. It was...an idea, I suppose. A rather foolishly simplistic idea," Watson found himself babbling, but could not bring himself to stop. "I had thought maybe I could find a new profession, or something to do with my time. I just—I mean—"

"_A Study in Scarlet_?" Holmes read the title curiously.

Watson propped his elbows on his knees and planted his face in his hands.

"'It has been my greatest privilege and honor to come to know a singular man by the name of Sherlock Holmes. Through the merest happenstance—'"

"Enough," Watson mumbled from around his fingers. "It was a foolish idea. Is it at least legible?"

"Just a moment." Holmes said distractedly as he continued to read silently.

"Holmes, please. You really don't need to do this," Watson pleaded, feeling truly wretched.

Having scanned the relatively short amount of material, Holmes closed the little journal. "Would you care to explain this idea? And, to answer your question, it is remarkably legible. Quite up to your previous standards, actually."

Watson heaved a sigh. Still not able to turn to face the man he had, only moments before been writing about, he turned back toward his desk. "I thought that perhaps I could take up writing, even if only in this simplistic form for the time being. It...was a way to fill the time. I thought, perhaps, I could take up chronicling your investigations as more than just notes."

"As a biographer?"

Watson could only nod miserably, now fully seeing for the first time just how ridiculous this notion truly was.

Holmes could not bring himself to crush the man's ambitions so thoroughly. The idea of his name being splattered all over the papers or magazines. And, based on what little he had read...he shuddered silently, quickly putting away the thought. It was just too horrible to comprehend. But it had appeared to make Watson happy, if only for a few hours. It had turned his mind back to something other than his own deficiencies and limitations. He had—in Holmes' opinion—faced each challenge with remarkable results. How much of that was stubbornness and how much of it was desperation to avoid the depression Holmes was certain he had been staving off was another question altogether. But, the possibilities for this being used as both a learning experience and a diversion might just prove beneficial. Maybe, with time, he could convince his friend to turn that energy toward his own journals and their case notes and away from this abhorrent idea.

"Then your timing could not be more perfect, Watson," Holmes assured him happily.

Seeing how Watson sat up straighter, absolute shock painting his face, Holmes knew he'd made the right decision.

"I have a client coming to visit later this afternoon. I was hoping you would be up to joining us."

Watson seemed to hesitate.

"Of course, it will likely be a very simple case and one resolved quite easily. You will probably not have need of your newly developed writing skills just yet. But I would welcome your company."

The hesitance gave way to something akin to hope as those unfocused green eyes roamed around the room. "If you are certain?"

"Of course, dear chap. But first, I believe we could both use some of Mrs. Hudson's finest cooking."

Now that the fear that had temporarily taken up residence in the pit of his stomach had been removed, Watson found himself reminded quite audibly that it had been nearly two days since he'd last eaten. Sensing Holmes' brief grin at the confirmation of his suspicions, he stood to join his friend in the sitting room.

"Honestly, Holmes, how terrible was it?" Watson could not help asking, for some reason no longer fearing the answer.

"Well, it will definitely take some work," Holmes found himself answering, putting aside his personal feelings. "Quite legible, really. But does it really have to be so...romanticized?"

Watson chuckled somewhat nervously. "It's my first attempt, Holmes. I didn't expect it to be perfect."

"Neither should I, of course. Yet, I beg the question, biographer or chronicler?"

"I suppose there is a difference. I think I prefer biographer," Watson suggested, hoping Holmes would catch on.

"My very own Boswell?" Holmes mused almost teasingly. "I recall you mentioning my arrogance more than once in our time together, dear chap. Do you really think that is wise?"

Watson laughed heartily as they entered the sitting room. "I suspect not, but 'chronicler' has an even more romanticized impression about it, in my mind. And adds something of a sense of unwillingness on your part, as you are still alive to approve or disapprove."

_ Ah, so that is what he's seeking!_ Holmes thought to himself.

Huffing for a moment as if on the verge of disapproval, Holmes seated himself across from Watson at the table. For a moment he held the journal before tossing it onto the table within easy reach of his friend. Seeing the discomfort once more in Watson's features, he found he could not deny his friend this; no matter how much the idea horrified him.

"Very well, then," he snapped out, trying to put as much enthusiasm as he could into his words. "If you truly believe there is something there worth writing about, then I approve."

The afternoon sunlight could not compare to the smile that lit Watson's features.

* * *

**A/N 2: **Okay...So I guess this is their way of explaining why Holmes would allow Watson to become his Boswell when he so very much disliked the romanticized portrayals of their adventures. Does it work?


	9. Chapter Eight

**Chapter Eight**

True to his word, Holmes greeted their client later that afternoon with a bit more enthusiasm than Watson thought normal. Though he couldn't quite figure out exactly what it was that Holmes was trying to hide, he knew there was something. Chalking it all up to Holmes just being happy about having work again, Watson settled into his usual spot and listened. He was not surprised to find his hands twitching restlessly for lack of anything better to do. His fingers itched for a pen and a case journal. Instead, he focused on the case presented and all the details he could take in, hoping perhaps he would try his hand at writing them down later.

As the elderly mother, Mrs. Mitchell poured out her story of her son wrongfully accused of a variety of crimes, Watson listened carefully. He was surprised to note the slightest tremor in her voice. It was not the emotional tremor of a distraught woman. There were other things. His keener hearing and doctor's senses picked up a few other things that did not sit well with him. He was surprised to realize that even while he was absorbing the details of this case, another part of his mind was forming theories and possible diagnoses. More to the point, he had all but dismissed her case.

She was lying.

However, this was Holmes' case. He would not interfere, beyond asking a few questions he thought might be helpful to his friend, as ever. It was not his place to pass judgment or offer opinion unless Holmes asked. He was rather surprised at how easy it was to fall back into his comfortable position as friend and partner to the detective. He had thought it would be much more difficult or uncomfortable.

And then it struck him. Holmes was nervous. Turning his attention away from the client, he focused on Holmes without giving any visible outward appearance of doing so. Not having to look at someone _did_ have its advantages. There was a distinct sound of more movement and enthusiasm than usual. Holmes was a master at controlling his expressions, attitude, and more. Part of what made him such an incredible actor was his ability to control nervous habits and revealing traits. Only to one who knew him so well as Watson could there be any revealing difference. And, even then, it was so subtle, Watson began to doubt.

Finally, at long last—in Watson's opinion—Holmes dismissed their client with his assurances that he would do his part. Watson waited patiently murmuring a good day to the woman who had all but ignored his presence. This, he also noted, could be beneficial; but he could not quite see how just yet. He filed this away for later as Holmes returned to the sitting room heading straight for the mantle and his pipe.

"Well, Watson, you were rather quiet," Holmes commented as Watson rose to join him. "What were your observations?"

Watson smiled. "Simple as my observations may be, I doubt they are anything you did not already know."

He could sense more than hear the relaxing posture and grin his friend flashed at him as they took to their normal chairs beside the now empty fireplace.

"She is dying. By my estimate of her remaining lung capacity—which she did cover quite well while speaking with you, by the way—she might have as much as six months. She is also lying. For reasons of her own, she is hoping you will accept the case and a considerable sum of money to fabricate evidence that will throw suspicion on her son's case and free him before she dies."

"Excellent, Watson!" Holmes exclaimed.

Watson accepted this rather high praise with little more than a nod. "And, you were nervous. You had her case and her measure within a couple of minutes of her explanation. Though I cannot venture a guess what other conclusions you were able to draw from her physical appearances, something set you off almost from the start. Instead of dismissing her in your usual fashion, you continued to let her go on paying less than half attention to her story as you let your mind wander to other things."

Not really certain what type of reception he would receive for these more personal observations, Watson waited with mounting tension. He need not have worried. Holmes' chuckle answered his unspoken questions.

"Quite right, dear chap. And, as I said before, and excellent series of observations."

"Would you care to enlighten me?" Watson offered, keeping his tone light; though he had already drawn his own conclusions, and didn't particularly care for them.

"You seem to be doing quite well on your own," Holmes shot back, relaxing further into his chair. "Please, continue."

Watson sighed. "You were, in part, concerned for my reaction to sitting in on one of your cases where I would not even have the opportunity or ability to take notes. You specifically chose this case knowing it was a fraud. I would venture a guess it was as much of a test as it was a lead into something else entirely."

"Ha!" Holmes barked a laugh. "Very good, Watson. You are correct on all counts. I might make a consulting detective of you, yet!"

Watson's face colored slightly at this—to his ears—sincere praise. But his curiosity was still eating him alive. "Then what else is there? You know she is lying. And the moment she realized I was blind she practically dismissed me from her mind."

"Yes, this is true, " Holmes said softly, though Watson could detect a hint of something else there. "Callous as this may sound, Watson, that dismissal of your presence can be beneficial."

"I thought as much," Watson replied. "No more callous than the use of any other tool at your disposal."

"Watson," Holmes started with some exasperation, "you're not a tool to be used and then put away when not needed."

Now it was Watson's turn to chuckle. "Maybe not, but they don't need to know that. Don't worry so much about my pride, dear friend. Your opinion is the only one that matters. If there are uses to be found, find them. If I take issue with them, I will, of course, let you know. And that is all that needs be said on that subject."

Holmes again wondered at the trust this man so casually placed in his hands and what he could ever have done to deserve such. "Thank you."

"Now, will you _please_ tell me what this other connection is that you are evading?"

Holmes again chuckled at his friend's renewed enthusiasm for their cases. It had been a difficult decision, but he refused to let Watson fade into the background as if nothing more than a shadow. The man had already been robbed of his profession as a surgeon. Only months after re-establishing himself as a healer he had been robbed of that, as well. So much the man had already suffered in his short life, Holmes felt he needed to give something back. If this was all he could provide, then he prayed it would be enough.

"Her other son," he finally stated, watching Watson's reactions. "The son she so very carefully did not mention is the link. One of the men I suspected several weeks ago of being involved with that series of thefts and murders we were investigating is her younger son. Mrs. Mitchell is a link in this, and I believe she knows."

"She is complicit?"

"I do not know for certain, but I suspect as much."

"I detected some stress," Watson started in a distant and distracted voice, recalling those minutes clearly in his mind. "But, of course, she was also lying quite clearly. I cannot be certain that she was, perhaps, being threatened."

"No, no," Holmes countered, disappointed. "Mrs. Mitchell is old and she is dying. She knows this much. There is no doubt she is aware of her sons' activities, but has her own reasons for _her _participation in events. I do not believe she is under duress. What threat could one provide as enough incentive for a dying woman? Even were her sons threatening to ruin her publicly or financially, she had no one else whose future she must take into consideration. There is something else here, Watson. She is playing her own game, as they are playing theirs."

For a while they puffed away in silence, each delving into their own thoughts and theories upon the matter. When Holmes finished his first pipe and moved toward the set of tea Mrs. Hudson had thoughtfully left them, Watson rose from his chair. When he heard Holmes pouring two cups, he turned to look around thoughtfully. It was all well and good for Holmes to sit in silence while occupying his mind with the many, obviously more intricate, details of the case. However, Watson was at a loss. He had spent his morning writing, and very much did not feel up to trying his hand at it again just yet. Until Holmes was ready to share his thoughts upon the case, there was little for Watson to do beyond sitting there.

As Holmes handed him a cup of tea, he considered his limited options. He knew without something to do, he would only wind up being a distraction for the detective as he began to grow restless. Moments later and idea struck him when he heard Holmes' long, dexterous fingers fishing about in his slipper for more tobacco.

"You're almost out," he commented.

Holmes only humphed something distractedly, obviously not paying much attention.

"I shall go get some more," Watson volunteered, waiting for a reaction he did not receive.

Smiling to himself, Watson quietly exited the sitting room. He doubted Holmes had even noticed. What it was that decided him on such a reckless course, he could not imagine. However, after the stresses of the day and the previous day's misadventures, he felt the need for something more physical. He'd spent far too long in the hospital lying around. And, in the time he'd spent back in his rooms here on Baker Street he'd done little more than the same. His heart set on this little, independent adventure, he decided to attempt to prove to himself that he was not as helpless as he occasionally felt.

Not wanting to disturb the detective, Watson enlisted Mrs. Hudson's aid. As she was busy working on their supper and a few other things, he did not want to take up her time, either. After obtaining a walking stick and getting her to check him over, he explained his intentions. For a moment she seemed horrified at the prospect. This he quickly soothed by requesting she seek one of the Irregulars he was certain were always hanging about nearby.

"Oh! I had almost forgotten!" she exclaimed, obviously flustered. "Little Peter brought back your walking sticks yesterday. He said to tell Mr. Holmes not to be so careless in the future."

Feeling his own cheeks flush at remembering why it was that Holmes had likely left them behind, Watson cleared his throat uncomfortably. However, Mrs. Hudson's touch on his arm and gentle squeeze reminded him she was only teasing. He smiled warmly in return.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. I will be delighted to pass that message on to Holmes, as he will be needing to compensate them for such thoughtfulness," he assured her.

Mrs. Hudson sniffed in amusement. "It's not as if those little urchins didn't eat enough sweets to be amply compensated, Doctor."

Detecting the woman's motherly nature and patently false disapproval of those children, Watson nodded in agreement. While the idea of a bunch of little street runners invading her house had initially horrified the woman, their repeated good behavior when in the presence of himself, Holmes, or Mrs. Hudson had quickly changed her mind in the last several months. Often she treated them no differently than she would likely have done for any of her own children. And, Watson couldn't remember a time when she didn't send them on their way with some delicious treat or another from her kitchen.

"If you'll have a seat here at the kitchen table, Dr. Watson, I will be back in a few minutes," she told him, gently leading him to a seat.

She quickly poured him a cup of tea while he waited before she disappeared into her rooms before exiting the front door. Alone with his thoughts in the warmth and comfort of a myriad food smells in the kitchen, Watson began to feel the first creeping doubts. Certainly this venture out of the house, even with one of the Irregulars as a guide, was likely both foolish and reckless. But, his restlessness ate at him. He had grown accustomed to spending most of his days and a considerable portion of his nights out of the house. He had very nearly made up his mind to return to the sitting room when Mrs. Hudson returned bustling someone considerably smaller into the kitchen ahead of her.

"Dr. Watson, I would like you to meet Abner—"

"Jus' call me A!" the little boy interrupted, obviously disliking the use of his christian name.

"A, then. A, this is Dr. Watson."

"Pleased to make your acquaintance, sir!" the little boy bounced forward enthusiastically.

"The pleasure is mine, A," Watson returned cordially, extending his hand. "However, I believe you owe Mrs. Hudson an apology. It is rude to interrupt when another is speaking."

Though he was certain the boy could not be more than nine years old judging by the height and the size of his hand, Watson had felt the need to educate these children in much the same fashion he had seen Holmes doing in recent months. Holmes, it would seem, had every intention of taking these boys under his wing and teaching them something of the social manners and education needed to do more than be beggars when they grew older. Watson admired this, and had every intention of doing his part.

The boy shook his hand firmly and confidently before turning away to face Mrs. Hudson. "Please accept my apologies, Mrs. Hudson. I will not be so rude again, I assure you."

The boy's formality bore no hint of mocking to Watson's ears and sounded as if it had come from a young man considerably older than this little boy. Holmes' teachings must have been spreading through the ranks of the Irregulars. Watson took an instant liking to the boy.

"That is quite alright, A," Mrs. Hudson replied graciously. "Now, I believe the Doctor has a task for you."

A turned back to his charge and continued to maintain the formality he had begun with their introductions. "What can I do for you today, Doctor?"

"Mr. Holmes is out of tobacco, and I am low on mine as well. I would like to take a walk to the tobacconist on Oxford Street. As I am incapable of doing so without a guide, I would like to enlist your services. I will need someone to guide me and warn me of obstacles or other dangers. I will need assistance with the exchange of money and goods. And, of course, the same will apply to my return to Baker Street. Can you do this, A?"

The boy waited patiently for the doctor to finish his little speech, his previous lesson still on his mind. "Of course I can, Dr. Watson," he said confidently.

Watson could sense there were likely plenty of questions A was itching to ask, but was trying to decide what would be polite and what would not. Uncomfortable as he still was with his condition, he had questions of his own.

"You and the other Irregulars were not aware?" Watson asked, carefully.

"No, sir."

"I was blinded by an injury to my head. Does this make you uncomfortable?"

"Ah course not!" the boy shot back, almost irritated. "There's lots of us that can't see, or hear, or talk. We always help each other out. Is it supposed to be different for you?"

Watson wondered again at the simplistic view of a child. This statement had a way of easing a fear he had not realized was coiling in his chest until it was gone. Smiling warmly he answered the child.

"No, but some would not see it that way. Now, is there anything else you would like to ask me?"

"How much am I getting paid?" he asked boldly.

Chuckling, Watson dug into his pockets for the coins he'd picked up earlier. Though he did not suspect any dishonesty, he asked Mrs. Hudson to count out some pay for the lad. Stifling the last of his concerns until he could face them directly, he allowed the boy's gentle tug on his jacket sleeve to lead him out the doors and down the rather busy city sidewalks.

~o~o~o~

"You cannot possibly mean he just blithely—" the muffled words of one of Holmes' explosions greeted Watson as he let himself in through the front door.

Given where the voices were coming from, it sounded as if Holmes had invaded Mrs. Hudson's private sanctum in the kitchen. Somewhat surprised that Holmes had not heard the opening or closing of the front door, Watson hesitated for a moment. Briefly he toyed with the idea of sneaking up to the sitting room and resuming his seat as if he'd never left. Obviously Holmes had only just noticed he was missing. Though he had not been gone very long, he knew, it had been a bit of a nerve wracked—and exhilarating—experience. Still riding his sense of victory, he felt his mischievous streak coming to the fore.

"How could you possibly—"

Hearing Holmes' angry and fearful tirade winding up, he knew it would be grossly unfair to his landlady to leave her in that position. While he did not doubt her ability to put his flatmate in his place when she was in a mood to do so, he decided it would be easier for all if he dealt with this himself. Knocking briefly, he let himself into the kitchen.

"Is there a problem, Holmes?" he asked innocently.

"Watson!" Holmes exclaimed, obviously startled.

Watson tossed him the package of tobacco before he had a chance to speak further. "I needed some air and exercise. I hope you don't mind."

Mrs. Hudson sniffed disapprovingly as Holmes obviously stood there at a loss. "If you don't mind, gentleman, I have dinner to finish cooking. That is, if you have any intentions of eating at all tonight."

Watson smiled gratefully for the woman's perception as well as her teasing tone as she verbally shooed them out of her kitchen. Leading the way, Watson headed up the stairs to the sitting room with a still silent Holmes behind him. Though he really had no data on which to gauge Holmes' reaction, he had no intention of letting this ruin the newfound sense of independence and victory he'd earned today.

"I do apologize for the distraction, Holmes. It was not my intention to draw you away from the case. I simply realized you were in need of tobacco, or would be soon enough."

Holmes grunted something as they headed toward the fireplace mantel before giving a more verbal response. "You enjoyed that."

"Not the fact that I worried you, no. However, my walk was most pleasant, and A was an excellent guide. I had not expected you to notice I was gone so soon. And, I was certain Mrs. Hudson would have given you an explanation, had you bothered to ask."

He could sense Holmes' discomfort as he refilled his pip. Very clearly he envisioned Holmes' rather scarlet face at the moment. It was not like the man to lose his temper, especially with Mrs. Hudson. Crossing her, they had both learned quickly, as a very bad idea. And, obviously Holmes had not bothered to ask anything.

"I suppose this means I will have to apologize," Holmes finally grumbled.

"That would be appropriate to the situation, yes," Watson affirmed with a grin.

Holmes sighed theatrically as if he were most burdened of men. Watson grinned even further sensing the humor behind this. "Oh, very well. If I must."

"Good."

"You enjoyed your walk?" Holmes asked, almost tentatively.

"Yes, actually. Young Abner apparently has some experience with blindness and conducted us quite safely, I assure you."

Holmes very deliberately did not voice his thoughts upon the matter as he once more considered the amount of courage it had taken for Watson to attempt such a second time. Holmes, himself, was not sure he would have been up to a second attempt after the results of the previous day. His ever-rising admiration of his flatmate and friend increased another notch. Silently he eyed Watson's obviously more comfortable and greatly contented countenance sitting across from him in his own chair and could find nothing more to be said.

Watson had decided to attempt to regain some of his independence. If his use of the Irregulars could facilitate that much, then he felt they were not being paid nearly enough. He would have to find this Abner in the group and thank him. Perhaps it was time he had a talk with Wiggins.


	10. Chapter Nine

_**A/N: **More? You demand more? _

_**shell less snail** don't worry, I won't make you beg...much. ;)_

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**Chapter Nine**

For a time the two sat in contented silence as Holmes continued his heavy puffing away that told Watson he was working on their case. The heat of the day had done little to help with the stuffiness of the sitting room that Watson was once again feeling. Though the thrill of his accomplishments of the day had not quite worn off, he was again feeling at odds with nothing constructive to do. Deciding to go back to his earlier attempts at writing in the hopes of not disturbing Holmes, he made his way to his writing desk in the sitting room. As he began to set it to his liking, he decided it was time to open a window before Holmes smoked him out of the room. Thankfully Mrs. Hudson would soon be bringing up their dinner, and maybe he could convince Holmes to cease for at least a few minutes while they ate. Turning in his chair, he pulled back the curtains.

His next thought was wiped out as he was struck by a wave of the explosive agony he had experienced a little more than a day ago. Somewhere beyond himself he could hear Holmes' nearly panicked voice calling his name in such a way that it resounded violently within his skull. Each syllable was a fresh stab of agony between the hands he knew he was using to clasp his head as if to block out the noise. He clenched his teeth and eyes against the pain as he tried to force his stomach to obey his commands to be still.

Somewhere beyond the agony bright fireworks of colors danced across the darkness when he felt Holmes' arms encircle him. He was not sure how long the process took, but the trip from sitting room to Holmes' bedroom felt like an impossible stretching of hours. At some point Holmes voice, barely above a whisper, penetrated the all-consuming pain in his head. A cool glass of something that smelled pungent, but not entirely unpleasant was pressed against his lips. In too much pain to think, he swallowed reflexively as the cup was tilted.

Minutes later he felt as if his body was drifting away in the darkness as the pain was pushed back. He was floating alone and silent in that darkness, wrapped in his pain. The other sounds that assaulted his hearing he could not make sense of in his present state. But, somewhere outside of himself and the darkness he sensed another presence.

And then there was nothing.

~o~o~o~

Holmes finally allowed his painfully tense posture to relax. From his position beside the bed in his own room, he had watched as Watson drifted off to sleep gradually as the mixture Dr. Cummings had left them took effect. Holmes was unspeakably grateful for how quickly they had worked. He wasn't sure how much more his already taut nerves could handle. In all his life, he'd only ever seen one other person in enough pain to whimper so helplessly. And to see his friend reduced to such a state was something that evoked a sense of helplessness that bordered on fury.

As Watson began to snore softly, Holmes carefully stood and began straightening him out a little on the bed. Curled up as the doctor was, he would be in some considerable pain when he woke. Likely, given the tension he had felt earlier in those muscles, Watson would be feeling it anyway. At least this gave him something to do that made him feel a little less than useless. Settling back into his chair, Holmes began to turn his mind back to the moments before this attack.

He could not begin to imagine what Watson had done. The last time they had been walking down the street happily. This time Watson appeared to be doing something at his desk. Of course, Holmes had been engrossed in his considerations of Mrs. Mitchell and her sons at the time. He had not seen what had affected his friend so. Cursing his own inattention, he sat helplessly in his chair. He knew sitting here did not really benefit Watson at all, as he was sleeping peacefully for the moment. But going back to the case almost seemed wrong in light of his friend's condition.

Torn between the two, inactivity won out. Knowing there was nothing more he could do for his friend, Holmes silently left the room and closed the door behind himself. If Watson woke again still in pain, he had the powder mixture and a glass of water nearby. Returning to the sitting room, he briefly ran his eyes over Watson's desk and area before dismissing it. There was nothing out of place and nothing notably different. He'd done as much thinking as he could at this point. Now it was time for information.

~o~o~o~

The warm, nearly stifling air of Holmes' bedroom was the first thing Watson took in upon waking some time later. He could not quite remember any details of what had led him here. There was something about pain, sound, flashes of colors, and then nothing. But there was no doubt it was Holmes' blankets he was now smelling as he found himself wrapped up in them quite thoroughly. He imagined he'd been thrashing in his sleep again to be so tangled. As he began to unwind the blanket from around his legs he froze.

He could see!

_Well, not exactly,_ he reminded himself wryly as he processed the fact that everything was a contrast of black objects and white light.

Turning his hugely smiling face toward the windows, he realized he could not just feel it, but _see _it. In a strange way it was a huge blob of massively blurry whiteness. He could not make out the window frame or the walls. The rest of the room was still a dark mass of lumpy objects of varying size. In places where sunlight touched directly, the objects took on a different, lighter shade.

His heart racing in excitement, he very nearly fell out of the bed in his rush. He had to tell Holmes! Speaking of which, where was he? Watson's had just enough time for his feet to touch the floor before his excitement drained away into gut wrenching fear that had his heart racing for an entirely different reason.

_ Should _he tell Holmes?

Watson sat for a moment considering. He knew this could very well signify a recovery that would be nothing short of miraculous. From a medical standpoint, it meant that the damage to his brain was nowhere near as severe as previously thought. But there had to have been at least _some_ damage for him to have lost his sight at all. Not for the first time, he was grateful the damage had only robbed him of his sight. He could very well have been left far worse off, if not dead.

That brief thought made him shudder visibly.

Despite his rising sense of hope for recovery, it was far too soon to tell. Viewing things now through the eyes of the doctor he was, he had to remind himself sternly that these vague blobs and blotches of lighter area might be all he ever sees again. It was not even enough to successfully negotiate a room without sunlight. He had to question himself and his motives from a professional standpoint. What would he tell the family member if he had a patient in this condition?

His mind made up, Watson forced himself to calm. Though he doubted he could entirely hide this from Holmes, he hoped he would have some time to see if there was further progress before giving the good news to his friend.

_Better only one of us suffers the disappointment,_ he thought to himself.

Based on the amount of light coming through the window, Watson knew it could not be much past late morning. So far he had not heard anything beyond the door to the sitting room. Obviously Holmes had not kept a bedside vigil, for which the doctor was now exceedingly grateful. Deducing in his own simplistic way that the detective must be out working on his case, Watson carefully made his way out into the sitting room. Still not able to see anything beyond vague blobs of undefined shapes, he attempted to survey the room. As expected, Holmes was not there. Changing his mind, he decided to head toward his room and freshen up a bit before starting his day.

Moments later his feet encountered papers that slid right out from under his bare feet. Gripping the first thing within reach reflexively, he very nearly fell right into the edge of Holmes' table full of chemicals. Something shattered as unseen items fell from the tabletop. His heart lurching fearfully, he attempted to keep himself from falling. But, the best he could manage was a sideways position that crushed something under his left leg with stabbing pain. He felt more than heard as the glass item shattered under his weight grinding the countless shards into the flesh of his thigh.

Disoriented and fearful of the chemicals that had likely been disturbed, Watson sat breathing through the pain for a moment. The sound of pounding feet rushing up from below alerted him to Mrs. Hudson's movements. Without a doubt, she easily heard the racket he'd made and was justifiably concerned. However, his greatest concern at the moment was the danger from any chemicals. He detected the strong odor of spilled and mixed components that could be potentially deadly when mixed. Praying whatever he'd crushed into his leg was not equally lethal, he forced himself to a sitting position.

"Dr. Watson!" Mrs. Hudson threw open the sitting room door nearly frantic with worry.

Though Watson could not see her, he could feel her trying to rush to his side. "Stop! Don't come any closer. I don't know enough about these to tell you what may happen. Go fetch Dr. Cummings."

"But doctor! You're—"

"Please, Mrs. Hudson! I will need Dr. Cummings and we need to get out of this room and close it until Holmes returns. I will be in my room."

Mrs. Hudson seemed hesitant to leave him in this position, but Watson was not about to let her stay if these turned into a ball of flame or a cloud of poisonous gas. Despite the pain, he crawled away from the table and toward the settee. Only when he was firmly back on his feet using the back of the settee for support did he hear her steps retreating swiftly back down the stairs. Within moments, he heard the front door closing as he exited the sitting room firmly closing the door behind himself. Only then did he realize he'd left Holmes's bedroom door open.

Just to be on the safe side, he took a deep breath of cleaner air and held it. Testing the knob on Holmes' bedroom door on the landing, he disappointed to find it locked. Releasing his breath and leaning on the door, he finally turned his mind away from potential disasters. Running his mind over the last two minutes or so, he could guess at what had happened. Holmes had been up all night working on the case. As was his usual method, he spread papers, books, and other articles over every inch of the sitting room floor and furniture. And then he had left, without so much as pausing to consider the fact that a blind man might be needing to safely negotiate through the shared sitting room.

Caught somewhere between fury at his friend's carelessness and fear for what had happened and all its potential consequences, Watson found himself restraining the urge to throttle the man. Reigning in his temper, he tried to focus on the fact that his leg was likely bleeding all over the carpet. Reaching down to probe with his delicate surgeon's fingers, he found he could not tell if there had been any liquid in that beaker or if it was all just his own blood. If it was some sort of toxic substance, he would know soon enough. If it was poisonously lethal...

There was nothing he could do about that now. For the time being, the best he could manage was to try to contain the worst of the mess. Heading up the stairs to his room, he sat patiently with the door open waiting for Mrs. Hudson and Dr. Cummings. In the meantime, he almost wished Holmes would return first.

If there was going to be a mess of blood everywhere, might as well get it all over at once.

~o~o~o~

Fortunately, Watson had enough time to calm himself before Holmes' return. As a matter of fact, Dr. Cummings had been able to confirm there was no obvious signs of chemical or herbal mixture with the blood or on his pants. This served to greatly relieve some of Watson's worry, but had left him still fuming for quite some time as the doctor patiently extraced a large amount of glass from the hundreds of cuts. A few were large enough for a couple of stitches, but most would have to heal on their own. His leg wrapped, he was able to change into some clean clothes and freshen up with Dr. Cummings assistance.

By the time he requested Mrs. Hudson's assistance with cleaning up the mess in his room he'd already gone from silent, fuming fury to a simmering anger. Which, as he was assisting Mrs. Hudson in what ways he could, then left enough room for a combination of embarrassment and depression. He knew that ultimately it was his inability to see which had caused all this. Holmes had not altered his habits in the slightest. Though they had agreed to a compromise and trial period, he had to admit that this was the first real issue he had encountered. He would have to speak with Holmes and, perhaps, they could work together to find an acceptable solution.

These thoughts did not stop him from wanting to do bodily harm to his flatmate, however.

By the time he was left alone in his room, he was actually quite thankful Holmes had not appeared sooner. Had he, Watson did not doubt his temper would have gotten the better of him. Not only was that unfair to Holmes, but he knew half his anger was directed toward himself. He had no right to take it all out on Holmes, much as he wished to for a while there.

Alone with these thoughts and more, he lay on his bed for a while trying to ignore the throbbing pain from his thigh. He was so absorbed in his considerations for the future and what he was feeling that he failed to hear the front door closing. But there was no missing Mrs. Hudson's voice. Watson smiled briefly as she verbally flayed the detective. He couldn't hear exactly what she was saying, but her tones were easily clear enough. As he forced himself back to an upgright position, he heard the pounding of Holmes' feet upon the stairs as he obviously raced toward the sitting room.

For some reason, Watson was not surprised in the slightest when Holmes went straight for the sitting room rather than checking on his friend. But when he heard the angry shouting and stomping feet on the stairs toward his room, he reconsidered his previous stance. Moments later, his assumptions were proven when Holmes didn't even bother wasting energy on knocking on the door. Obviously he was saving it all for the angry tirade he was about to launch.

"Good evening, Holmes," Watson greeted levelly, hoping his calm demeanor would extend to his friend.

"What the devil were you thinking?" Holmes snapped. "You cannot begin to comprehend how luck you were..."

Disappointed, Watson let these angry words wash over him. He should have known better. Once wound up, there was little that could deter the detective.

"Maybe you should show a little consideration!" Watson snapped, interrupting whatever it was Holmes was saying.

"Consideration? Watson, I've shown you nothing but!"

"Then you might try taking into account that a blind man would need to walk through the sitting room after—"

"You're the one that didn't bother using the other door. You must have known I wasn't in the sitting room!"

"The other bedroom door is locked!" Watson snapped, feeling his own temper.

"Then you should have been more careful! Weeks of research is ruined! And Mrs. Hudson is putting all of this on me, as if your clumsiness were all _my_ fault!"

"Clumsiness? For God's sakes, Holmes! I'm blind!"

"Sometimes I wonder if you've ever been otherwise! What possessed you to think you ever had a chance to go back to a normal life. Honestly, you should at least have the decency to consider..."

Watson froze. Had he really just heard that? Could this really be Holmes speaking? Would his friend really be so cruel?

Again he tuned out all but Holmes' voice. He let the angry, hateful words wash over him. Some part of his mind continued to catch some of them, but they really didn't matter anymore. He was too furious to care. In one smooth motion he was certain tore at least half of the stitches in his leg, he launched himself at Holmes. Apparently Holmes was too stunned to react. Gripping him by the front of his jacket tight enough to pop off a few buttons, Watson threw Holmes bodily out of his room and slammed the door.

It was all he could do to prevent doing worse. Days of pent up frustration, fear, anger, and pain had just explosively come to the fore. He was so consumed in these things he could not even form coherent thoughts or words. Growling wordlessly to himself, he paced the tiny confines of his bedroom. Anything beyond that bedroom door was more than he could handle right now. Until he got his temper under control, he really didn't want to deal with anyone or anything else.

The tentative knock on his door some indeterminate amount of time later proved as much. Though he knew full well that knock was Mrs. Hudson, he still did not feel up to it.

"Go away!" he shouted, very deliberately locking his door.

Mrs. Hudson's lighter steps retreated down the stairs a moment later.

Again he paced feeling very much like a caged animal ready to tear apart anything within reach.

Hours later the sensation of warm blood running down his leg and the throbbing pain of torn stitches and abused flesh began to penetrate. In his anger, he had not even thought of the consequences to himself. Feeling foolish, he flopped into his desk chair. As if the anger had just suddenly evaporated, Watson found himself exhausted as the adrenaline began to fade from his system. For a moment, he considered how ridiculous this whole day had been. While he was not about to admit Holmes had been correct, he did have to admit to his part in the day's events. Perhaps if he had been more careful, or at least stopped to consider the fact that his friend had been working all night and would leave his typical mess behind him, this would not have happened. He had allowed his temper to get the better of him, and the fact that he'd taken out all of his pent-up feelings on his friend did not sit well.

Based on the temperature of the room, he knew it was well into the night. Likely, Holmes was still up and angry, or up and working. But now Watson was just too tired. He was tired of a lot of things, but his physical condition left him in no doubts that he would be better leaving apologies to the next morning. Hopefully by then Holmes would have come to his senses as well.

Carefully he changed out of his clothing and cleaned up the mess of his leg before covering it with a fresh bandage. He could not remember the last time he felt so terribly weary or spent emotionally. This outburst was just further proof that he needed to find something to do with his time, or even go back to that early attempt at writing. Making up his mind, he crawled into bed. Tomorrow he would apologize and discuss things with Holmes. Then, he was going to spend some quality time with his journals and see if maybe he couldn't at least attempt to sort out some of this mess. He could not, after all, expect Holmes to deal with what he had yet to deal with himself.

The idea that their friendship would not survive never even entered his mind as he drifted off into a fitful sleep.


	11. Chapter Ten

_**A/N: **Okay, I'll apologize now if this chapter is not up to my usual standards. I didn't want to leave everyone hanging for a whole day without an update. But I am suffering a massive headache, a case of second-guessing myself, and I'm seriously distracted by work tonight. If this one is really all that bad, please let me know and I will rework it over the next couple of days while I'm off work._

_In the meantime, I once again send out a HUGE thank you to **shell less snail** for all your help and feedback! *hugs*_

* * *

**Chapter Ten**

The next morning Watson found himself rolling over uncomfortably in an attempt to get away from the light filtering through his windows and stabbing his closed eyelids. Once his exhausted, sleep-fogged mind caught up to what he was trying to do he could not help the undignified giggle that escaped him. Instead, he rolled over to face the window. Still nothing more than a brighter blob, but what a glorious blob of whiteness!

Feeling much encouraged by this, he carefully shifted himself to plant his feet on the floor. His wounded left thigh still throbbed painfully, but it didn't seem anywhere near as bad as he expected. That meant there was likely no infection as of yet for his previous day's misadventures. With the light beaming brightly through his window, he was now able to make out the shapes of the various objects in his rooms. Purely for the pleasure of doing so, he walked around his room carefully touching each item he could define.

But, this didn't last very long. He still had to dress himself and then go down and see what he could do about repairing the situation between himself and his friend. He very much owed Holmes an apology for his loss of temper and the results. Holmes comments still did not sit well with him, but he was certain Holmes would have had time to calm down and likely offer apologies of his own. Turning toward his wardrobe, he froze with indecision for a moment. Holmes was always the one to come and lay out clothes for him so he didn't make a fool of himself every morning. Briefly he wondered if he should perhaps throw on a dressing gown and then go ask Mrs. Hudson for assistance.

Then he realized he could see somewhat. Maybe he could at least make out enough to dress himself. Carefully he felt around his clothing, feeling for similarities in texture. Then, one by one he held them into the direct beam of sunlight hoping to define color. He was sorely disappointed when all he could see was a sort of dark brownish, black substance contrasting the white of his sheets. Still no real definition to anything. Taking a best guess, he quickly completed his toilette and dressing.

By this point he was running through a myriad possible ways to broach the subjects with Holmes while offering his apologies that would not leave them both feeling embarrassed or uncomfortable with their recent displays of temper. Ultimately, he knew it would come down to Holmes. Whatever he offered, Holmes had to meet him half way. If he wasn't ready to go that far, there was no hope for even a truce until his flatmate would calm down. Putting aside his own embarrassment at such a physical loss of control over his emotions, Watson stiffly descended the stairs toward the sitting room.

Despite the early hour, Watson could hear voices on the other side of the door. He hesitated for a moment, doubting his presence would likely be welcomed in the middle of an interview. His hand on the doorknob, he listened to see if it might be Lestrade or another person that would not mind his interruption briefly. He really did want some coffee.

At first he could only hear Holmes' voice droning on in a way that was obviously meant to be reassuring, but sounded...off for some reason. Holmes was tense, deeply concerned about...something. Focusing every bit of his hearing on what was going on beyond that door, Watson tensed up. He was too far away. They were on the other side of the room. If Holmes was in trouble...

Turning, he tested the knob to Holmes' bedroom. He could have cried out with relief that it was unlocked, even if only this once. With hardly more than a whisper of sound, Watson ever so carefully let himself in and headed toward the other door to the sitting room. Having successfully managed this much, he again focused his mind on the voices in the sitting room.

"...is absolutely useless. He is making arrangements to attend a school for the blind. You need not..."

Whatever else Holmes was saying was lost in that moment of shock. Watson backed up a step as all color drained from his face. He could not believe what he had just heard. He refused to believe Holmes would betray him so utterly; especially to someone else! Clenching his fists at his side to keep from throwing open the door, he forced his temper back once more. What he heard next had him reeling back until he found himself seated rather unceremoniously on Holmes' bed.

_It's him!_

For a moment, Watson's mind refused to make sense of those words. But that voice left him cold with dread. His heart stuttered and very nearly stopped as he put a face to that voice. Suddenly there was a flash of pain, a growling voice, and...Holmes. He was there. It was dark. His head hurt. The warm muck of the filth in the alley pressed into his palms. Another explosion of pain.

Darkness.

He had woken to darkness. And then Holmes was there with him, in the hospital. But it was still so dark.

"Thank you, sir! It means a great deal to me that you will look into this matter personally. I will be expecting you at the house before lunch?"

"Of course," Holmes confirmed, still sounding tense to Watson's ears.

Watson could hear them walking toward the other sitting room door as they exchanged good byes. Quickly Watson leapt off the bed. Not wanting to alert them to his presence, he held the door closed praying they would not notice. He heard the larger man's footsteps retreating down the stairs and toward the front door.

"Watson?"

The soft voice on the other side of the door let him know his friend had not missed the fact that the door was not entirely closed. Pulling back the door, Watson motioned for silence. Whatever anger he'd felt before was gone now in his concern for Holmes. Only when he heard the front door closing did he push past Holmes and toward the sitting room windows.

"Watson?" Holmes asked again curiously as Watson slammed his fist on the window ledge in frustration.

"Are you alright?" Watson growled out, again trying to put away his fear and frustration.

"Yes, of course I am," Holmes snapped, feeling his own frustration rising at his friend's uncharacteristic behavior. "What the—"

"Approximately six feet five inches tall, twice your width—possibly a rugby player—dark brown hair, dark eyes, mustache, black boots that do not match his nicer clothing—more practical, maybe—stained with something like acid or another chemical."

Holmes stared in wide-eyed shock, again taking in those unfocused green eyes. Wait! There was something different. They weren't focused on him, but they were a little less empty today. Then it dawned on him that his friend was waiting for an answer.

"Yes, but how...Can you..."

"No, I still can't see. At least, not_ that _much," Watson said, still not releasing the tension he felt. "But I know him, Holmes. I recognized the voice. He was in the alley that night. He was the one with the pipe."

Watson rubbed the back of his head subconsciously as he moved away from the windows and toward the breakfast table. Holmes almost didn't hear that last part. He already knew that much, anyway; or rather, he suspected. But his mind latched onto those first words.

"But you_ can _see?" he asked with more hope than he could possibly keep out of his voice.

Watson hesitated as he sat himself in his customary chair. Avoiding the gray eyes he knew were trying to penetrate his thoughts, he finally nodded.

"I wasn't...I didn't want to tell you...yet. It's not much. Basically just a contrast between light and dark. If it's bright enough, I can see the outline of objects as blurry shapes. Nothing more," Watson finally answered, slumping dejectedly in his chair.

Holmes could not quite get passed this. His mind refused to believe that was all. He still could not explain his ridiculously childish optimism, but this... And, yet, Watson had not wanted him to know. Shaking off that thought, he focused on more recent goings on.

"You heard?"

Watson nodded, but refused to look up from the hands folded deliberately in his lap. "I don't blame you, Holmes. This is possibly all I will ever see again. A school may still be the best recourse."

Holmes' brief chuckle startled him into meeting those gray eyes, though he didn't know it. "_That_ was Mrs. Mitchell's other son."

Watson's eyebrows furrowed darkly in curiosity. "I don't remember much of that night, Holmes. But he_ was _there."

"I believe you. And his questions regarding your health were a bit too disconcerting. I was removing you as a target."

"Target?" Watson asked with mixed confusion and not a bit of anger.

"Yes, dear fellow. I set up this little meeting in a roundabout way yesterday. I was ensuring my return to that investigation was noticed."

Holmes sat himself at the table across from Watson pouring them each a cup of coffee before continuing. "As I'm sure you've discovered, even the Irregulars were not aware of your condition. Only three people outside this house know. His asking about you not being present for the interview combined with such solicitous behavior informed me he was trying to assess how much of a threat you were to exposing them. Some vague assurances of memory loss and blindness easily accomplished removing you as a potential target."

Watson could hear the discomfort in his friend's voice. Not wanting to leave him in the position of needing to apologize, but still needing to resolve much in this instance, he nodded consideringly as he sipped his coffee. The silence drew out as he continued to turn over his thoughts. By this point he could hear Holmes' fidgeting with various objects as he obviously tried to formulate something approaching an apology. Considering this torture enough for his friend, Watson smiled as he set down his now empty cup.

"Apology accepted."

He could imagine the absolute shock on Holmes' pale features quite vividly.

"That is, if you are willing to accept my own," he finally stipulated.

Holmes laughed nervously before finding himself in the rare position of struggling for words. "Would I be correct in assuming we were both...somewhat..."

"Temperamental? Childish? Self-absorbed?" Watson suggested with exaggerated innocence.

Relieved by his friend's show of humor, Holmes joined in the game. "Now, now, Watson. Such name calling is beneath a gentleman of your stature."

Watson's laugh lightened the atmosphere considerably as Holmes poured them both more coffee. "Nonetheless, I_ do _apologize, Holmes. I lost my temper."

"And is it assumed or expected that you always keep the cooler head? I believe I was no less guilty. My comments were unworthy and—"

He fell to silence as Watson put him out of his misery by waving it off. "It was an accident. What happened after is done. Now, if you would be so kind, I would dearly love some breakfast and for you to fill me in on the developments of the case."

~o~o~o~

"Absolutely not!"

"I did not ask your permission, Doctor!"

"You don't need _my _permission to start using that great brain of yours to come up with a plan that _isn't _suicidal!"

"The plan is flawless! I will—"

"Get killed trying to get the information without someone there to keep you from being their next murder victim! You're _not_ doing this alone!"

"And I suppose _you're_ going to be the one?" Holmes asked snidely.

"If I must," Watson retorted evenly.

Now that the two of them had lowered the volume to something less than what the neighbors could hear, Mrs. Hudson decided it was time to inform Mr. Holmes that his cab was waiting downstairs. Watson threw a warning glare at Holmes.

"Don't—"

"I don't have time for this, Watson. My 'client' is expecting me."

"Holmes—"

"Have good day, Doctor. I'll be back with the results late this evening," Holmes tossed blithely, easily dodging Watson's efforts to block his exit.

Watson growled in frustration as Holmes closed the sitting room door. He had no doubts the only reason the detective had shared as much information as he had in this case was to allay his fears and not leave him pacing the sitting room all day and night. This had, in fact, produced the exact opposite effect. In moments Watson had the sitting room window cracked open. Focusing all his concentration to filter out as much of the background noise from the street as he could, he listened closely.

Minutes later he exited the sitting room himself.

~o~o~o~

Less than an hour later, Watson watched the Irregulars lead by Wiggins himself as they filed out of their front door. By this point, the sunlight was streaming through the door in such a way as to make their varying sizes easily distinguished as darker outlines against the light. But, he was also feeling the strain. His eyes stabbed mercilessly every time he forced himself to see what little he could, and his head pounded painfully. He still cursed his inability to see clearly enough to be effective, but now he had other eyes. Many other eyes. And these were eyes that could see into the darkest recesses of the city. There was nowhere one could hide from them.

Having given Wiggins and the others the address he'd overheard Holmes giving the cab driver, he began to form a plan. His part would be limited, but at least Holmes was not going into this alone. Now he just had to—

"Doctor?" Mrs. Hudson asked, startling him.

Regaining his composure, he closed the front door. "I apologize Mrs. Hudson. I was distracted."

"He's up to something again, isn't he?" she asked sternly, obviously not having heard the conversation between Watson and the Irregulars.

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson," Watson replied wearily. "Don't worry, though. I'm working on a plan of my own."

"I don't doubt it, by the looks of you. But, you also look like you could use a cup of tea," she told him sternly. "Come, I have a fresh pot steeping in the kitchen."

"Thank you."

"You're most welcome, Doctor. But, I do hope Mr. Holmes is aware that you are not one to be underestimated," she commented with false casualness filling her voice.

Watson could not help the grin that held something almost mischievous. "I hope he never learns."


	12. Chapter Eleven

_**A/N: **Here is where I offer my deepest, most sincere apologies for the delay in posting. Life has taken some rather interesting twists lately that have proven to be more of a distraction than I had originally anticipated. However, here we are again, I'm back at it. And I dearly thank all of you for being patient with me. _

_Also, after days of beating me over the head with this story, the muses and characters have decided they're going to do things their way. With no previous outline, it has been a struggle. I still have no idea where some this is going or where it will end up. If it is not up to my usual standards, I apologize. But I will hope to be back in the swing of things shortly. _

* * *

**Chapter Eleven**

Watson paced the sitting room. It was all he could do now. He'd given his initial instructions to the Irregulars in the hopes it would produce something. He could not prevent the frustrated feeling of uselessness and helplessness that plagued him. He knew beyond a doubt that Holmes was in trouble. For that matter, Holmes had jumped blithely into that trouble and he knew that too. Sometimes the man's reckless streak was just a little short of outright suicidal.

And the fact that he couldn't be there to do anything about it now made his blood boil. More importantly—in his mind—was the way Holmes had completely disregarded his concerns altogether. Watson was well aware the man had a stubborn streak. But this level of disregard was something that left him feeling it was almost more personal. Watson could not puzzle out if he was just being overly sensitive about his lack of helpfulness, or if Holmes really was that determined to see this case through to the end. The first only made him angry. The second made him wonder all over again at the man's loyalties.

The stabbing pain behind his eyes flared once more as the sunlight of the afternoon began to filter through the sitting room windows. Though it was not a repeat of the migraines of before, this still was enough to obliterate all other thought as bursts of color consumed his vision in dazzling displays of pain.

_Not now, blast it!_

Covering his eyes, he breathed through the pain. His first thought was toward the shades he could not see, but might be able to pull. Feeling the settee behind himself, he tried to orient himself to the room to make his way across to the windows.

"Dr. Watson!"

He'd been so consumed by the pain, he'd failed to hear the knock or the entrance of his landlady behind him at the sitting room door.

"Shades," he told her a moment later, as he felt her hands pushing him to a sitting position.

"I'll get them," another voice called nearby, startling Watson into almost looking up.

Moments later the two had pulled the shades and closed the curtains eliciting a sigh of relief from Watson. The colors still danced vividly in his vision, but at least the stabbing agony of the sunlight was no longer present.

"Thank you, Inspector, Mrs. Hudson," Watson finally said, after taking a moment to compose himself.

"Are you quite alright, Doctor?" Mrs. Hudson inquired, seating herself beside him on the settee.

"Yes, it was just...unexpected," he answered, hoping her scrutiny would not lead him to further embarrassment in the presence of the inspector. "Would you be so kind as to get us a fresh pot of tea?"

"Of course, Doctor. If you're quite certain I shouldn't fetch Dr. Cummings?"

"I am, and thank you."

Moments later Mrs. Hudson excused herself from the sitting room closing the door quietly. Sensing almost as much as seeing the outline of Lestrade against the still brighter background of the windows, Watson rose and motioned the man to a seat.

"Thank you for coming, Inspector."

"It's not as if you left me much of a choice, Doctor," Lestrade returned, obviously giving Watson almost the same level of scrutiny as Mrs. Hudson.

Tired of feeling like some sort of item on display, Watson decided to get that little bit of unpleasantness out of the way. "I am still effectively blind, Inspector. I still suffer side effects of the injury from time to time. Exposure to bright light apparently triggers them. I am quite well enough, for the moment, to fill you in on events. However, I do apologize for the interruption to your day. As I am sure you are quite busy enough, I will be brief; though, I will need your help."

Lestrade felt his face flush slightly as he realized he'd been staring at the doctor. Though he had seen the young man recover greatly from his war wounds and more in these last couple of years, it never ceased to amaze him that he still shared rooms with a man such as Holmes. But, in light of this streak of stubbornness and more that he was now seeing, he could begin to understand.

"Of course, my apologies, Doctor," Lestrade offered, taking a seat.

"None needed," Watson waved dismissively. "Has Holmes informed you of his return to the investigation of the theft ring?"

"The one in which you were...attacked?" Lestrade asked, hesitantly.

"Blinded, if you wish," Watson stated, with some amusement at the inspector's attempts at delicacy. "You need not concern yourself with offending me, Inspector. I am a medical man."

Lestrade's nervous chuckle seemed to ease some of the tension. "In answer to your question, no, he had not. I take it you're not happy with this fact?"

Watson sighed as he again rubbed his eyes, as if trying to figure out where to begin. This was likely not going to go over well since this was Lestrade's case, afterall. "I can't say I'm unhappy that he's resumed his investigation, but certain facts have come to light that put a more dangerous aspect to the case."

Lestrade settled in to listen as Watson filled him in on what few details he'd gained from the detective. He was surprised to find himself clenching his jaw at the sheer stupidity the younger man displayed at times. For someone with enough brains to put to shame all of Scotland Yard's finest on a regular basis, sometimes the man's idiocy astounded him.

"Inspector?" Watson asked when the silence drew out.

"So the Irregulars are looking?"

"Yes."

"But you suspect he won't be at that address?"

"Yes."

"You have something else in mind?"

Now Watson seemed a bit uncomfortable for some reason Lestrade could not quite comprehend. Obviously there was more going on here than he knew. He waited patiently for the doctor to collect his thoughts. What he heard next possessed a streak of recklessness that he could only assume had been picked up from the man's flatmate. His heart sank as he listened. There were just too many possible ways this could go horribly wrong. He started to shake his head and tell Watson what he thought of the plan when Mrs. Hudson returned to the sitting room once again with an Irregular in tow.

As expected, Holmes was not at the location. He never even stepped out of the cab. This sent a thrill of concern through Watson that he had to forcibly suppress. This was, after all, no more than he'd been expecting. Apparently Mr. Mitchell had met him on the corner and stepped into the cab, leaving Holmes no opportunity to escape at the time. Where that cab had gone afterward, no one knew. Watson issued his orders and the little boy scampered off with some of Mrs. Hudson's biscuits in each hand.

Watson returned his attention to Lestrade, who had given them a moment while he collected his thoughts in preparation for the argument.

"It won't work, and it's too dangerous, Doctor," he stated bluntly.

Watson smiled in a way that was far too confident for his liking.

"My apologies, Inspector," Watson started, rising to feel around the table for the pot of tea. "I should have made you aware at the time that you've already helped me."

Having successfully poured himself a cup of tea, he moved back toward the settee, only now realizing he was beginning to see something akin to shades of brown instead of just black. Even better was the slightly more defined objects. It was still painful enough he could feel his face pinching and eyes squinting, but it was enough to move around more freely than he had in the past.

Curious, Lestrade only watched for a moment, sensing he was not going to like what he was about to hear. Sitting back and crossing his arms he watched as Watson resumed his seat, still smiling in a way that made him most uncomfortable with those unfocused green eyes.

"How so, Doctor?"

"You're here, and likely were clearly seen through the windows when you so kindly drew the shades," Watson informed him, then burying his grin in his cup of tea.

For a moment, it took Lestrade's slower mind to catch up to what the Doctor was implying. "You mean—you already—I..."

"Thank you for your cooperation, Inspector," Watson replied blandly.

Lestrade leapt to his feet not believing what he was hearing. Reckless didn't even begin to describe this! Worse, he'd just been manipulated in a very Holmes-like fashion by the one person he would never have expected.

"I have no doubts they were watching these rooms before Mr. Mitchell ever showed up. And—"

"You deliberately brought me here for no other reason than—"

"I do apologize, Inspector Lestrade, but it was necessary to convince them."

Lestrade turned away from the blind man sitting on the settee before he did something unbecoming of a Scotland Yard inspector. Besides, he did not want to have to explain to Holmes why his flatmate had a black eye. He stepped toward the fireplace and the mantle and let his eyes roam for a few moments trying to collect his thoughts. How the man could so calmly sit there was beyond him. Running a hand through his hair, he turned back to find Watson eyeing him with a curiously focused expression, even when obviously tinged with pain.

"Doctor?"

Watson nodded, seemingly more to himself than the inspector. "It _can_ work, and requires little effort on your part. If you walk out that door right now, you've already done your part; though it will make mine exceedingly difficult and dangerous. While I have no right to expect you to expend Scotland Yard resources on this, I am asking for your help."

"You're going to bluff your way through this one way or another?" Lestrade asked with no small amount of annoyance.

"Not entirely bluff, Inspector," Watson told him. "Would you be so kind as to hand me that holder on the mantle behind you?"

Lestrade humped in disbelief. But when he turned do to as asked, he was not surprised to find the item was not there. Turning back with a triumphant grin, he was instead met with a hand on his shoulder and a second pulling his arm up behind him. Instinctively he struggled out of the grasp that was quickly released as Watson stepped back with his hands raised.

"I do hope you're not intending on using that fire iron on a helpless blind man, Inspector," Watson threw at him with a grin.

Only then did Lestrade realize he'd used his free hand to grab at the first thing he could use as a weapon. "You heard me pick it up."

"Yes, but anyone watching would not have known the difference."

Disgusted with feeling manipulated, concerned for Holmes, and feeling thoroughly fed up with the whole situation, Lestrade all but threw the poker back into its stand. "Mr. Holmes is not going to like this."

"If he's still alive to do so, I'll will consider it worth his ire. He's already been gone for several hours and could be anywhere in the city. The Irregulars are looking, but I don't expect they'll make it that easy. Will you help me?"

"You don't leave me much of a choice," Lestrade replied angrily.

"Very well, then. Good day, Inspector," Watson told him stiffly, turning toward the windows.

Before Lestrade had a chance to say anything more, Watson threw back the curtains and opened the blinds. Keeping his eyes averted, Watson did his absolute best to show no signs of the pain that exploded through his skull as he moved from one set of windows to the other.

"What the devil are you doing?" Lestrade all but shouted.

"If you are not going to participate willingly, then I see no reason for you to be here," Watson stated through clenched teeth as he turned away from the windows to walk quite casually around the room as if he could see perfectly.

Clenching his own jaws, Lestrade resisted the urge to say say more. It would seem one way or the other this infuriating flatmate of the great detective was going to put his neck on the line. Whatever that arrogant man could have done to deserve this kind of loyalty he could not imagine. But in his heart, Lestrade knew he was not going to let them both walk into almost certain death without his at least attempting to provide some way out.

Stalking across the room he gripped Watson painfully by the arm before dragging him out of the sitting room door an onto the landing beyond. Watson, in too much pain at this point to struggle, allowed the inspector to guide him in his less than gentle manner.

"This is reckless, and—in my opinion—downright stupid. But if you insist on this plan of yours, I will at least do my part to see you both survive it," Lestrade finally ground out. "Now, sit down before you fall down, Doctor."

Gratefully, Watson sat on the lowest stair of the flight leading up to his own bedroom. Were it not for the need for clear thinking, he would happily have taken some more of Dr. Cummings' mixture. Breathing deeply, he waited for the roaring in his ears to recede as the flashes of color dimmed. Blinking several times he finally managed to open his eyes once more to realize in the gaslit surroundings, he was able to make out the inspector's vaguely shaped blur. Still not as much of an improvement as he would have liked, but better than nothing at all. Scowling to himself, he wondered why the inspector was still there.

"Doctor?" Lestrade asked, seeing the man finally recovering. "Is there something I can get you? Should I call Mrs. Hudson?"

Heaving a sigh he shook his throbbing head slowly. Watson really was getting tired of apologizing. "I apologize for causing you concern, Inspector. You need not worry—"

Lestrade snorted. "Is that all?"

Feeling his face flush Watson rose to his feet. "Yes. I will not apologize for the rest. As I said, you are free to leave."

"Obviously you didn't hear me. _I _said I will do what I can to help. But if this little episode was not enough to convince you that you are in no condition—"

Feeling his own temper flaring at the little inspector, Watson stepped forward. "And Holmes is out there while you continue to argue a moot point. We don't have time—"

"Gentlemen?"

Mrs. Hudson's quietly worded interruption contained just enough warning to remind them of the volume of their own voices. Taking a step back from one another, they turned their attentions anywhere but on each other. Mrs. Hudson eyed them long enough to ensure she was not about to tolerate any further behavior of that sort before handing over a telegram.

"This just arrived for you, Doctor."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," he said accepting it, feeling it unopened. With a sigh, he handed it over to Lestrade.

Lestrade glared for a moment before opening it. Mrs. Hudson retreated back down the stairs. Lestrade read the contents for a third time.

"Was I wrong?" Watson asked.

"No."

"And there is our proof. Now, if you would be so kind..." Watson took the telegram out of Lestrade's hand and made a show of re-entering the sitting room and walking around as if reading it.

Lestrade felt an all too familiar tension crawling through his chest. He still did not like this idea one bit. But the fact that the doctor had thus far predicted their movements with no less skill than the detective himself, meant that perhaps there was some minute chance this could work. For all their sakes, he prayed it would.

~o~o~o~

Tied to a chair in a basement somewhere else in London, Holmes smiled. Thus far his plans had worked to perfection. As expected, the cab arrived, Mr. Mitchell waved a gun in his face and they were off. Being knocked unconscious hadn't been entirely a surprise, but not detrimental either. With his knowledge of London, it had only taken him a few minutes upon waking to determine an approximate location. The fact that they didn't bother to blind fold or search him all that well was even more amusing. He had considered them at least a little above an amateur level.

Though he had no idea of the time, he knew he could not have been unconscious for all that long. Now he would just have to wait for them to return. Rather bored with his analysis of these rather plain stone walls, he entertained himself with the idea of what Watson would think when he returned with the details of his little adventure. Even with the still lingering headache, these thoughts combined with the presentation of the final outcome of the case to Lestrade was enough to keep him occupied.

But, as the day wore on, he began to wonder why they had left him alone. Obviously they wanted something, or he would have been killed by now. He already suspected where this was all leading, and he wanted the bigger catch than a small ring of thieves and murderers. There was someone much higher up orchestrating this little group, and he wanted them. Truly growing restless and beginning to feel the discomfort of so many hours tied to this chair, Holmes began to toy with the razor he kept in his cuff.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, but could not have been more than a few hours, the door behind him opened.

"Ah, Mr. Mitchell. I wish I could say—"

The fist that caught him full in the face twisting his neck painfully silenced the snide words he had begun. It took Holmes a moment to process what he was seeing as his vision returned to normal. Feeling the blood running down his chin, he gazed at the furious red face before him.

"You lied about Dr. Watson," the man said with more calm than Holmes would have expected from such an enraged countenance.

Seeing the man had at least some control, Holmes didn't concern himself too much with pushing the man. "I beg your pardon?"

"You were just a decoy."

His heart fluttered for a moment in genuine concern wondering how much this man actually knew. Keeping his expression carefully blank, he raised a curious eyebrow. "Decoy?"

Instead of a verbal response, the man swung his fist directly into the detective's exposed ribs leaving him gasping and choking for a moment. Without a doubt, at least one rib was cracked.

"You sent him to Inspector Lestrade."

For a moment, Holmes' briefly oxygen deprived mind struggled to keep up beyond the roaring in his ears. "Lestrade?" he heard himself ask.

A fist grabbed his hair slamming his head painfully into the back of the chair making him see stars. "What are you planning?"

His neck pulled back at a painful angle to stare into those eyes that promised only more pain to come, Holmes wracked his brain for a suitable answer. The truth would never do. And he had no way of knowing what the doctor or Lestrade could have to do with any of this. Watson was back in their rooms on Baker Street. Lestrade was...wherever he was. Obviously the man realized he was not going to get an answer out of the detective and released him. Taking several steps back, he crossed his arms and stared down at his captive.

"You should have made it easy on yourself. We were only needing some information and a little help. You would have been amply compensated. Now, we'll have to change our plans," Mr. Mitchell informed him.

Holmes found himself chuckling. "I believe we are both beyond such petty games, Mr. Mitchell. You had no intentions of letting me out of this alive, however invaluable my assistance."

The man smiled in a way that Holmes thought nothing short of predatory. "My mother would have wished otherwise. But she is old and short-sighted, and accidents happen in our line of work, Mr. Holmes. Though, we had thought to leave Dr. Watson out of this, since you were so kind in assuring us he was a blind cripple. Now that we know otherwise, and he had regained enough memory, he will also have to be dealt with. This whole plan has too much risk. My mother may not see it, but I do. Unfortunately, for both of you, she will not be around much longer."

"Dr. Watson has nothing—"

"You're lying!" he roared, swinging his meaty fist once again. "We saw him speaking with Inspector Lestrade!"

Coughing, trying to get air into his abused lungs, Holmes tried to process this. What had Watson done? Lestrade? What... Vaguely his mind registered the door opening a second time. This time the lighter slower steps told him his visitor was none other than Mrs. Mitchell herself.

"Enough, son. We have other matters to attend," she snapped. "We have wasted enough time here. I had hoped he would prove more useful, but it is too late for that now. Kill him."

The old woman he now saw before him wheezed and puffed with lungs obviously riddled with some disease. Her flushed and twisted face was such a complete change that even Holmes had some trouble reconciling this image with the one that had been in his sitting room only recently. He watched as the elder son reached out to take her by the shoulders comfortingly.

"As you wish, Mother," he told her soothingly.

"And I don't want to hear any of your—"

"It will be alright, Mother," Mr. Mitchell continued smoothly. "I have another plan. He will be of some use to us, yet."

"You're the one that said it was too dangerous!" she shrieked. "I should have listened! Now there's nothing—"

"There is still Dr. Watson. We can use Mr. Holmes to bring him to us."

The woman stood huffing and wheezing to the point Holmes wondered that the woman had not yet fainted. Then she began a coughing fit that put an end to her wondering. Throwing Holmes one last grin that he could only interpret as evil, Mr. Mitchell carefully carried his mother out of the room and locked the heavy wooden door behind himself. Alone with his thoughts, Holmes decided that if they got out of this alive, he would kill Watson himself.


	13. Chapter Twelve

_**A/N: **A great big thank you to all of my reviewers, followers, and those who have favorited. It means a lot and I really am sorry to keeping everyone hanging for as long as I have._

_Sorry for the short chapter. Don't worry, more to come soon tonight. _

* * *

**Chapter Twelve**

"I still say this has got to be the stupidest idea I've ever considered, Doctor," Lestrade said, playing out the scene in the sitting room as if they were arguing violently while making little noise at all.

"I'm well aware of your opinions, Inspector," Watson ground out through clenched teeth as the pain continued to throb mercilessly through his head in the brightly lit room. "But if I don't show up, they'll kill him. Now, I think we've show them enough. You go on about your day. You'll likely be followed, so at least give the appearance of nothing out of place. I'll meet you there."

Throwing up his arms as if he was washing his hands of the whole situation, Lestrade made a very visible exit of the sitting room and then out the front door. Watson made a show of standing at the sitting room windows as if watching him walk away before navigating in blind, stabbing agony back out of the sitting room. He all but collapsed right there on the landing next to Holmes' bedroom door moments after closing the sitting room door. For a few minutes all he knew was pain, almost wishing his head would just explode and be done with the whole mess. While, at the same time, he cursed his weakness under his breath. He knew it would get better after nightfall, but he would likely still be just as helplessly blind.

_ Most helpful, I'm sure,_ Holmes snide voice rolled across his thoughts.

He clamped his mouth shut on the next rather vile set of thoughts that countered that voice as he tried to compose himself at least enough to find a few hours' relief in his room. Somehow he managed to make it up the stairs. Watson could have hugged Mrs. Hudson for her thoughtfulness at discovering the curtains were drawn closing out most of the light, and his powdered mixture and water was waiting for him on the bedside table. Much as he would have loved to indulge, he only allowed himself half. It was enough to ease some of the pain and leave him feeling as if his body were trying to drift away, but he would remain awake.

For several minutes he focused on breathing deeply and slowly as the pain began to ease into something more tolerable. He would not be thinking entirely clearly, but this was not an overly complex plan, at any rate. Most, at this point, would depend on Lestrade's coordinating. The telegram had not only proven they were being watched, but that they had Holmes and were wanting to eliminate the only other person that could interfere—himself. He would show up, Lestrade would take over the scene, and if Watson got a chance to knock a few heads, in the process all the better.

_You might try using your own head as more than a target, _Holmes' voice again drifted through his thoughts.

Watson groaned aloud. When had his flatmate taken up residence in his already chaotic thoughts? This was just too much. Carefully he fell back onto his bed, still fully clothed. Obviously he needed a rest. And while his mind was this clouded by the herbal mixture and pain, he was in no condition to do anything much of use, anyway.

But why did he still have this nagging suspicion that he was missing something? From the moment Holmes had outlined his plans, he'd known there was more to this picture. There was some element to all of this that tingled in the back of his mind telling him he really was being blind. Though there had been nothing in Holmes' demeanor that he could tell that would have given away his friend's deception. Of course Holmes would know what he was missing, but obviously had not shared it.

_Or had he known?_ Watson wondered.

Snippets of memories of the last few days flashed through his mind. Holmes had not been working on anything before Mrs. Mitchell's arrival. Then had come her son, afterward. Why two separate appearances? Had Holmes sent a reply to Mrs. Mitchell declining involvement while he was unaware? But that still didn't explain—

These considerations were interrupted by a gentle knock on the door. Heaving a sigh, Watson forced himself off the bed still feeling a little less than coordinated from the mixture in his system. The fact that he could see enough of a difference now to distinguish the darker wood of the door and the lighter color of the wall was noted with some surprise. But even for the color distinction, everything was so completely out of focus he still felt blind. Sometimes he wondered if this little bit of gray area in between seeing and being blind wasn't just more frustrating.

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson?" Watson asked, carefully composing himself and putting away his other thoughts.

Apparently Mrs. Hudson was eyeing him critically as she took a few moments before answering. "You're not well, Doctor."

Watson could not help the sardonic grin that he flashed at her. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson."

"I'm not here to offer you tea, young man. Or chase you into bed. I heard what you and the inspector were discussing, and I agree with him," she stated sternly. "You are in no condition to be out of this house."

His humor lost in the face of this formidable woman's ire and concern, Watson heaved a sigh letting the door swing the rest of the way open. "Mrs. Hudson, Holmes is in trouble. I don't know how much, yet. But I do know—"

"You would think a doctor would have more sense than to argue with a woman," came a deeper baritone with a teasing quality just to the side of Watson's doorway making him start.

Watson scowled to himself. It was bad enough he had been too distracted to hear Mrs. Hudson's approach. And hearing someone had obviously been standing that close and he hadn't noticed was even worse. He refrained from growling something unpleasant as he turned his attention to the newcomer.

"Doctor, Mr. Booth says you know him," she said by way of introduction, crossing her arms.

"Baldric's father?" Watson asked, now putting a face to the voice.

"Good to see you again, Doctor Watson. Though, I could wish it was under better circumstances," he offered politely.

Watson reached out to shake his hand, his face transforming into a mask of concern. "I apologize. I am unable to see very well at the moment. How is Anne? Are the children doing well? I can recommend a physician—"

"You misunderstand, Doctor," Mr. Booth told him quickly.

Watson felt his face flush as he realized his already clouded and disoriented thoughts had left his defenses down. The concern he naturally felt combined with his discomfort at being helpless to do anything for those he considered his patients had left him almost babbling.

"I've come here to help _you."_

Watson cocked his head slightly in confusion. "I'm sorry, I don't understand."

"Baldric told me what is happening. And I wanted to know if there was something I could do to help. Mrs. Hudson explained to me what you are planning."

Watson scowled in her general direction, earning a disapproving sniff in return. Before he could voice his thoughts on the matter, however, Mrs. Hudson gently nudged Mr. Booth aside.

"Gentlemen, we would be better off discussing this elsewhere. I have tea ready in the kitchen, Dr. Watson."

Something in the almost nervous tremor that arose in her voice set Watson's mental alarms ringing. Not for the first time, he felt he was missing something. Nonetheless, Mr. Booth did have a point. There was little sense in arguing with a woman whose mind was made up. Feeling more tired than he could remember and frustrated beyond words with himself and this whole mess, he descended the stairs only a couple of steps behind them.

~o~o~o~

Lestrade had done more or less as the doctor had instructed. He had returned to Scotland Yard giving every impression of being in a fit of temper. Raising a shout shortly after walking in the front door, he called several constables to his office and gave his instructions. As this was originally his case, he felt no qualms about pulling in whatever manpower was needed to see it through. After composing a list of available constables and planning out their placement in detail, he followed this by suiting his words and returning home to his wife and children.

Of course, this had the effect of ruining his dinner as the tension in his gut continued to twist almost painfully. He knew there had been more going on between the doctor and the detective. But this seemed such a simple, straightforward plan that his instincts were screaming. No ring of thieves and murderers would simply demand a meeting for the life of one over another. It made no sense. And the fact that Watson had predicted it so easily made it all the more disconcerting.

So far as he could tell, Holmes had been involved in this investigation from the start. Both he and Watson had encountered little problem until that night in the alley. Despite the timely arrival of a constable on the scene, he could not understand why six men had been unable to overwhelm two. He'd been otherwise occupied since that night, and hadn't really given it much thought. But as the hour approached for tonight's meeting, he again found Holmes' description of events chasing themselves around his mind in tandem with the possible motives for tonight's meeting.

On the surface, it appeared six untrained men were just not enough to take down a trained army vet with a stick and a hand-to-hand trained detective. On the surface, it seemed they were trying to lure Watson into a trap using Holmes as bait. The two had been relatively easily overwhelmed in the alley and walked away alive. They were keeping Holmes alive and trying to add Watson to their list of captives. Something tingled in the back of Lestrade's mind as the hair began to stand up on the back of his neck.

"Giles!"

Lestrade dropped his fork with a resounding clang on his plate while his wife glared at him fiercely. Feeling his face flush, he knew he'd just been caught. The look on Cee's face told him all he needed about her feelings on the subject.

"Would you care to join our family conversation this evening?" she asked in frosty tones.

Feeling sheepish for his lapse and how easily he'd been caught even after all these years, he nodded and quickly turned his attention back to his children. It had been some time ago he had promised to leave his job behind when he came home and truly be with his children. Tonight's events should be like any other. Until he stepped back out that door, his family deserved to have his undivided attention. Now engaged in a conversation regarding his wife's idea for their daughter's new dress and sons' outfits, he lost track of whatever it was he had been thinking only minutes before.

And that, of course, was as it should be.

~o~o~o~

Hours later Lestrade took up his position within easy visual range of the meeting spot. The fact that it was an all but abandoned dock lined with a collapsing set of warehouses did not sit well. Though the meeting was taking place out in the open, there was no doubting the layout made it all the more difficult to spot how many were in attendance. Just to be on the safe side, Lestrade had had all his men dress in plain, shabby clothes that would fit in with the local inhabitants that tended to skulk in the shadows. To his eyes, they were a bunch of untrained amateurs. He could already imagine what Mr. Holmes was going to say about this setup.

Nonetheless, there was no going back at this point. He could already see Mr. Holmes blind folded and gaged being led to the end of the little dock. It was far enough back that the man holding him would not be easily reached. Dr. Watson would obviously be forced to approach directly from the landing. Lestrade scowled darkly into the night as he watched Watson stepping slowly and deliberately forward. Again something itched in the back of his mind.

Something was wrong with the doctor!

Lestrade's gasp and then held breath did not go unnoticed. Though he could not hear what was going on down below, he knew something had changed. Before he had a chance to analyze this, he decided it was time to move. Giving the silent signal, he began to move forward with the rest of the constables in unison.

Even before he'd crossed the the small open area around the dock, the nearly silent night erupted in gunfire. Watson dodged and rolled to his left when he saw the gun coming his direction. Lestrade nearly stumbled as he dove for cover realizing what was wrong. That could not have been Dr. Watson! The man had not shown any signs of a limp and that shoulder would never have withstood that kind of impact. Lestrade may not know much about the man that lived with Mr. Holmes, but no man wounded in such a way would have been able to pull off that maneuver.

The man on the dock almost instantly caught sight of the chaos erupting all around him. Constables and criminals alike engaged in either gunplay or outright brawling. There had easily been at least one man for each constable. This was more than any could have anticipated. They must have been anticipating this level of resistence. But that still did not explain where Dr. Watson was in all of this.

His heart hammering painfully in his chest with the rush of adrenaline, Lestrade sighted his targets carefully before firing off a few shots. Still trying to work his way toward the man posing as Watson, he could not keep his eyes off the dock. Now close enough in the moonlit atmosphere to see the face of Holmes' captor, Lestrade wondered how he could possibly get Holmes out of this mess.

A heartbeat later, his blood froze to ice in his veins and his heart stopped almost completely. The enraged face of the man on the dock took on an animalistic feel as he snarled something savagely into the chaos. Lestrade was not able to hear the words, but the intent clear was enough. However, that become a moot point as the gun swung around from where the doctor's stand-in had been to Mr. Holmes' head. An instant later Holmes' head exploded and his body was shoved rudely off the dock into the filthy water below.

For Lestrade, time had stopped. His heart stopped. His mind stopped. He refused to believe what he had just seen. For all his professionalism, nothing could have prepared him for that sight. He had not known Mr. Holmes more than a few years, but the respect he had for that arrogant upstart was great. He watched the body falling helplessly knowing there was nothing he could do there. He could only barely take in the fact that another bullet had obviously taken down the murderer as he jerked and fell backward along with Mr. Holmes' body.

Seconds later the roar of gunfire far too close shattered his numbed thoughts in an explosion of pain as searing agony tore through his left side.


	14. Chapter Thirteen

**Chapter Thirteen**

Watson paced the confines of Mrs. Hudson's kitchen in a near frantic fervor. He knew this was a bad idea. He should be there. Even as his mind raced through possible scenarios, he couldn't believe he'd let Mr. Booth and Mrs. Hudson all but bully him into agreement. Growling wordlessly to himself, he was relieved the pain hadn't returned even as the herbal mixture began to fade from his system. He would have long ago left the house and followed Mr. Booth or gone to Lestrade, even, had Mrs. Hudson not kept a constant eye on him this entire time.

There was something still wrong. More than once he'd tried to figure out what he was missing but could not grasp it. He had no doubts whatsoever that Holmes knew something about that night they were attacked in the alley. Trying to piece together the facts as Holmes had given them was just not enough. The occasional glimpses of memory were just not enough. Something about this whole situation screamed wrongness in his mind he could not grasp. He knew it was right in front of him, but he could not make it complete.

Mrs. Hudson planted herself directly in his path back across the kitchen. "Doctor, if you take one more step, I'll grease the floor on you. Now _sit down."_

Briefly he considered attempting to return to his own room, but that was an even smaller space. In addition to this, he knew without a doubt she would not let him leave her sight until Lestrade returned with Holmes. Growling something ungentlemanly under his breath he reached out to locate the blurry mess that was a chair and sat himself painfully. He'd all but forgotten the throbbing pain in his thigh. He knew he was well overdue for a change of bandages, but could not find the time to care. For the first time he felt he could understand Holmes in this aspect. His mind was racing itself in circles, and seemed to be getting him nowhere.

~o~o~o~

Holmes was not entirely surprised when Mr. Mitchell made a reappearance some time after their first encounter. He had been expecting many things as his mind raced through scenarios. The sensation that there was far more going on than he knew ate away at his brain while he bided his time. But, he was sorely disappointed to discover his plans had all been for naught.

Mitchell said nothing as he came around the chair. He shoved a gag in Holmes' mouth and a heavy blindfold covered his eyes. Then his bonds were released from the chair only to tie his hands behind his back. Again he found himself thankful for the razor he kept in his cuff. As expected, they were moving him to a new location. He was alone with Mitchell in the carriage, but he could not make a move so long as he felt the gun digging into his ribs.

Eventually they arrived at a new location where numerous shuffled footsteps and whispered voices mingled on the floors above. Catching the strong scent of the Thames and rotting wood, he could guess at a dozen or so approximate locations. When a door opened letting out a musty scent of mildew directly in his face, he recoiled. For one, brief moment, he understood Watson's initial panic at negotiating stairs. And then that became a moot point as well.

Mitchell's sinister laugh followed him down the stairs and he fell painfully feeling each step. His final stop at the bottom knocked the air from his lungs as he struggled to hold back unconsciousness. Then the door above closed and the rattle of a lantern nearby alerted him that Mitchell had more enjoyment planned for his evening.

"Now that we're alone, Mr. Holmes," the man addressed, kicking him briefly to verify he was still conscious, "we can speak freely. You seem to be a popular man."

Holmes could only struggle feebly into a sitting position as the blindfold was ripped off his head. The sound of a heavy chain clinking behind him had him twisting around to try to see into the shadows beyond the light of the lamp.

"As I mentioned before, I have my own plans for this little operation. Mother has held us back for too long. She may have been clever enough in her youth to give us a start, but now there are other people with greater influence. And he has requested an audience with you, Mr. Holmes. You see, he is a shadow among us. His name is whispered only in the darkest corners of the deepest London alleys. But he has had his eye on you for some time. He thinks you're clever, possibly even useful. This is what gave Mother the idea to use you herself."

The sound of a shackle being opened did little to dispel Holmes' rising concern. Something had definitely changed. Or had this been the plan all along? Either way, he would not be able to cut himself out of this. Though, maybe he could still reach his lock picks. The words themselves meant little to him as his mind raced to consider where he was and possible escape routes. A small grated window nearby was too small. He would have to go through the house. How many could he hear moving above?

Before he had a chance to even formulate anything approaching a plan, the cocking of a gun just inches behind his head had him freezing. Moments later, the ropes around his wrists were roughly cut away leaving more than a few gouges in the skin bleeding.

"Now, Mr. Holmes, you will remove your clothing."

Still gagged, Holmes' fingers itched to remove the cloth. His face reddening, he glared defiantly at his captor in the darkness while his eyebrows drew together menacingly. The gun came level to his forehead just beyond the reach of his now freed arms.

"As valuable as you are to me alive, Mr. Holmes, I really do not need you at this time. You will do as I say. Whether you are conscious when you do so is entirely up to you. Any ideas you may have in escaping are pointless, as I have no compunctions about killing you and apologizing to him later."

Feeling his last chances of escape slipping through his fingers, Holmes ducked and sent a foot kicking toward Mitchell's exposed kneecap. Despite all his grace and agility in combat, it availed him nothing as the man calmly stepped out of the way and clubbed him on the side of the head with the butt of the gun. Watson had been right. With that level of speed and agility, the man had been involved in some sports. Holmes could easily see fencing and possibly boxing among them in that maneuver. However, a second blow with only slightly less force than the first removed all thought beyond the explosions of pain in his head.

Dimly Holmes felt his body somewhere far away as he lay on the cold stone floor. Too dazed to form coherent thought, he began to wonder why he was getting colder. Was the floor getting colder, or the air? Was it both? Feebly he attempted to curl in on himself. The grating laughter he heard then was enough to jar some sense of reality back into his fogged mind. He was still gagged, leaving the taste of wool all the way to the back of his throat. But the sensation of being so utterly exposed had him again curling in on himself.

While less than half conscious, Mitchell had stripped him of all but his small-clothes. Now he lay huddled in on himself on the chilly stone floor trying his level best to cover this overwhelming sense of vulnerability. He could not even begin to imagine what this man was doing or why. But, for the moment, all that mattered was finding some sense of his shattered dignity. Meanwhile, his pounding head began to echo in his stomach making him wonder if it would all be pointless anyway as he choked to death on his own vomit. As he struggled to something approaching an upright position once more, he felt the weight of the chain and shackle on his right wrist. Following the chain, he found it securely bolted into the wall some three feet away. With that length, Holmes could not hope to reach any other object, let alone escape.

Mitchell, having piled the clothes near the stairs, now sat pleasantly as if awaiting Holmes' return to full consciousness to continue the conversation he had begun.

"As I was saying, Mr. Holmes," Mitchell continued, "you are more valuable to me alive, for the time being. I welcome you to your new temporary residence. I will be negotiating your sale tomorrow. This gentlemen is quite interested in purchasing your little talents, as he sees it. And I would—"

"Michael! Michael!" the wheezing gasp of his elderly mother as she opened the door just above made the man's face twist in rage. "What are you doing down here? We need Mr. Holmes up here now! The meeting is in—"

The four gunshots silenced her permanently. Mitchell stepped back casually as her body rolled down the stairs leaving a trail of blood. The sound of several pairs of booted feet approached the door as Holmes watched with something akin to horror as he casually kicked her corpse aside to avoid spilling blood on the clothing piled nearby.

"Mr. Mitchell?" a tremulous voice from above called as he took in the scene.

"We're done with her. I'm now taking over operations. Do you gentlemen have any objections?"

Immediately whispered word spread through the men gathered above as they began to back away and disperse. Satisfied, Mitchell turned back to Holmes. The wicked smile of triumph that lit his features had Holmes frowning in disgust as he glared at this loathsome creature. He gave every impression of staring down his nose at the man, even from his position on the floor.

Mitchell placed the still hot barrel under Holmes' chin as he raised it, forcing him to meet gazes. "She was correct in one thing, Mr. Holmes. I really do not have much time. So far as Scotland Yard is concerned, you will die tonight. Perhaps they will find your body in the Thames. But, more importantly, Dr. Watson has willingly agreed to trade his life for yours. It is unfortunate you will not be allowed to say goodbye."

Forcing his features to calm, Holmes again wondered at the inconvenient surge of emotions that these words stirred within him. He had never planned on befriending the doctor. Taking him on as a partner had just been a shared amusement. But now...

Holmes would be damned if he was going to give this thing the satisfaction of knowing these thoughts. Instead he approximated a snort of disgust as shook his head to remove the gun barrel stinging the flesh beneath his jaw. With one last sadistic smile of anticipation, Mitchell turned back toward the stairs. Taking the clothing and the gun with him, he left Holmes alone with these thoughts. Not for the first time this day, Holmes was forced to suppress the rising panic as he wondered what Dr. Watson could possibly be doing.

Not for the first time he cursed himself for having gotten the doctor involved.

Self-recriminations filled the gaps in his mind that had once been reserved for planning an escape as he realized there was no way out now. Somewhere in the darkness, the body of Mrs. Mitchell stared back at him; as did Dr. Watson's green eyes glazed in death.

~o~o~o~

It was late.

Much later than he liked.

Watson was again pacing the small confines of the kitchen. He cursed himself as the minutes ticked by with painful slowness. He knew Lestrade and Holmes should have been back by now. Or, at the least, word would have been sent if Holmes was going to a hospital. Given Mrs. Hudson's presence he could not voice these curses openly, but that did not stop his teeth from grinding in frustration.

Before Mrs. Hudson even had a chance to rise from the table to block him, Watson had turned to the kitchen door and was on his way to the front door. His keener hearing already on edge from all the adrenaline had heard the furious pounding of little feet as they ran beneath the kitchen window. He threw open the door just as the bell was being run.

"Dr. Watson!" Wiggins exclaimed pushing his way indoors. "We've found him!"

Though it was too dark in the foyer, Watson could hear the gasping of another Irregular just beside Wiggins. "We...found...Mr. Holmes!"

"Calm down," Watson urged. "Where? And—"

"We saw them take a man dressed like Mr. Holmes so we followed. But then they just went to another house," Wiggins started to explain as he caught his breath. "They took him into the house and another guy came out dressed like Holmes, but it wasn't him. He's still there!"

Not wasting time trying to figure out the whys or all the other things that felt so inexplicably wrong in all of this, Watson made a decision. He sent the younger lad off to find Lestrade telling him where to find the meeting place and what was happening there. Above all, he made his position clear that he would not go anywhere near there if there was any kind of danger. Impatiently, the boy agreed and was off like a shot through the still open door. Grabbing a stick, he gave orders for Mrs. Hudson to fetch Dr. Cummings and wait for them here. Then he followed Wiggins out the door as the boy hailed a cab.

A familiar calm that had been both a friend and a curse to him in his days in the military settled over him. Letting go of the worry, tension, and conflict within, he focused on what lay ahead. Still effectively blind, there was little or nothing he could do of any use. But he refused to sit a moment more in those rooms until he had Holmes there with him.


	15. Chapter Fourteen

**Chapter Fourteen**

Watson stopped the cab about a couple of blocks away. This close to the Thames, these run-down old houses suffered from the kind of water damage that assaulted his senses from every direction. In the moonlight darkness, they were nothing more than massive blurs in his vision. Immediately Wiggins pointed out the one he had seen and Watson sent him off after a constable. In seconds he could hear a dozen or more Irregulars stirring from their hiding places as he began a careful trek toward the house along the shadows he could perceive. Every sense on high alert, he listened for any sound that might betray him. To his own senses, every careful footstep was a resounding thud upon the pavement.

Just as he reached the slime-coated back wall of the ramshackle house, another sound caught his attention. He ducked instinctively as the sound of a chain rattling nearby had him listening intently for an attacker. No footsteps approached as he listened intently for any sound that would betray his opponent's position. None came. And no other shadows detached themselves to approach him in the blurry darkness. Again the sound of a chain from somewhere closer to the ground and to his left had him cocking his head to listen. Still nothing. Slowly he rose to a standing position and began to shuffle in the direction of what he now suspected to be a restlessly sleeping guard. Perhaps, if he was lucky, he could sneak up on them and—

He bit back a curse as he stumbled before falling to his knees. A moment later he turned to grip the thing that had tripped him as a cold, clammy hand released his ankle. Again there was a rattling of chain. A muffled—no, _gagged—_voice tried to get his attention.

"Holmes?" he whispered carefully, not releasing the wrist he gripped.

~o~o~o~

Holmes was not certain how long he sat staring into the darkness of his own thoughts. His misery at his failure consumed him. He knew it could not have been very long. And when the gunfire broke out several blocks away he had buried himself in that misery. Given the number of bullets he heard fired, he could easily calculate the likely casualties. Though he had no doubts Watson had coordinated with Lestrade to setup some sort of trap, he also knew his friend had been in the fore of the action. Watson would never sit back safely when someone's life was depending on him.

So absorbed in these miserable thoughts, he only now began to realize what Mitchell had been saying. Someone out there wanted him, alive. That was why they had survived the alley fight. Watson they didn't need, but Holmes they had taken care not to kill or permanently damage. Mrs. Mitchell had appeared with her own story in an attempt to use him toward her own goals. Her son had appeared with his own set of motives. He cursed himself for his own blindness as silence again descended on the world around him.

The distant sounds of a muffled cab drew his attention only long enough to hear it moving away. Again his mind reeled with the idea that his friend was dead, and he was now a helpless captive. Seconds later his heart stuttered in his chest as he realized those faint, limping steps were coming closer. For one brief moment he entertained the idea that he had finally gone mad. But the slightest tap of a stick on the outside wall near that grated little window left him in no doubt.

Frantically he scrambled to his feet. He all but yanked his right shoulder out of the socket attempting to reach through the window with his free hand. He managed to get his hand out through the little bars just as Watson's foot shuffled directly into his path. Even as Watson's well-trained reflexes kicked in leaving him kneeling instead of face-first on the ground, he felt a hand clamp down on his wrist. Only then did he realize he was still wearing that blasted gag as he choked.

"Holmes?" the tentative, almost disbelieving whisper reached his ears.

Pumping his wrist up and down twice, he felt Watson's grip relax. Instantly he wriggled his arm back through the window completely ignoring the jarring pain as he ripped the gag off and spit out the wad of woolen cloth.

"What the devil are you doing here?" Holmes hissed. "Where's Lestrade?"

"Are you hurt?"

"No. Now what is happening?"

Watson's face took on a look of almost painful concentration. "Someone's coming."

Whatever relief Holmes had felt seeing his friend and partner alive and well suddenly turned to cold fear once more as Watson rose silently and shuffled out of his line of sight. He didn't dare call out having no idea what Watson was planning or how close this other person was. Worse, he could tell by the few steps his friend had taken away from the window that he was hiding, as if waiting for—

The horrifying images of Watson attempting to take on an opponent in his condition were suddenly wiped away as a door upstairs was thrown open violently. Above him he could hear the pounding of furious booted feet as they approached the door to the basement. Moving away from the window, Holmes waited Mitchell's return. Swallowing his feelings of vulnerability at his nakedness, Holmes stood with his head raised proudly while he cloaked himself in what dignity he felt he had left.

The dual rattles of a doorknob and a lantern greeted him as the door was thrown open with equal violence as the one above. Beyond the glow of the lantern, Holmes could make out the dripping wet, enraged countenance of Mr. Mitchell. As the gun in the man's outstretched hand was clearly illuminated, Holmes spared a thought for his friend and waited.

_ Click. Click. Click._

With an animalistic snarl of wordless fury, Mitchell threw the gun at Holmes. Holmes easily sidestepped the projectile as the man set the lantern on the stairs and then launched himself at his target. For all his feelings of vulnerability, Holmes had no intention of dying by this man's hands without a fight.

~o~o~o~

Watson heard the door being slammed open and the stomping feet across the floor. Furious now with his inability to see, he shifted closer to the little window. Not for the first time in the last few seconds he wondered angrily what was taking Wiggins and the others so long. When he heard the hollow clicking of someone attempting to fire a gun his heart leapt into his throat. The snarling rage he heard told him all he needed to know. His fear firmly pushed aside, he headed toward the door he had heard opening only seconds ago.

Fumbling his way blindly, Watson managed the few stairs and into the house. Below him he could hear a wild fight raging as the two combatants tore at each other. The violent rattling of a chain reinforced the fact that Holmes could already be badly injured. At the very least, he was limited in his movements. He didn't stand much of a chance against an enraged, larger opponent. Grimly he shuffled toward the source of light.

In the dimly lit space below he could hear Holmes battling with an enraged opponent. Holmes' coolly calculated movements would easily counter the man's rage, but Watson still could not tell by the constant flinging around of the chain just how badly hampered his friend was. However, these noises gave him all the auditory information he needed to gauge the size of the room, approximate location of the two, and the depth of the stairs. His hands and heart steadied, all else fell away as he calculated the odds and then made his move.

Kicking the lantern off the stairs, he plunged them all into darkness.

"Watson!"

"Holmes, the chain!"

They shouted nearly simultaneously. The snarling beast turned his direction as he momentarily forgot his original opponent. Stumbling badly, Watson gripped the rail as he attempted to make his way down the stairs. In seconds he could hear the man approaching him as Holmes attempted to keep him back. When this failed, Holmes could only do as his friend had demanded. Rattling the chain slightly to show his position but not enough to overpower the sounds of Mitchell's approach, he silently cursed this ridiculously brave and stupid man.

His feet planted at the bottom of the stairs, Watson did not dare move until he could ascertain both their positions. With the slight rustling of the metal links in the background he gauged the distance to Holmes as the booted feet approached from the same direction. Ducking, he came around with this back to Holmes and himself between Mitchell. Not wasting any time on thought, he swung his walking stick in the general area of the man's head. Unfortunately, this missed, only grazing his arm which still left the man howling in pain for a second. Taking a few steps closer to Holmes, Watson attempted to calculate the next move when the man rushed him bodily.

The last thing he heard before pain exploded across his chest and back was Holmes' frantic cries.

~o~o~o~

Hearing the bone-crunching impact of two bodies against the wall next to him, Holmes could easily deduce what had just occurred.

"Watson! Watson!"

When all he heard was the grunts from Mitchell, he wasted no more time in attempting to gain a reaction out of his obviously injured or unconscious friend. Having already gathered a length of the chain in his fist. Holmes swung violently. In the darkness, he could only pray he did not miss. The pained grunts and savage snarls he received in return for his repeated assaults left no doubt that he had hit his mark. But as Mitchell turned to go back on the offensive, Holmes also knew that it was only a matter of time. Holmes dodged and returned strikes wherever and whenever he could, but in the darkness he was no match for this enraged man.

Suddenly the shackle around his wrist was tugged viciously by his opponent when he found a length of the chain to grasp. Holmes felt himself sprawled painfully on his chest on the cold stone floor. Dazed by the impact combined with so many other insults to his body in the last few hours, he was too slow to react. In seconds, Mitchell had him pinned with a knee digging painfully into his spine. He could feel his already abused ribs creaking in protest at the man's greater weight.

All these thoughts and feelings fell into silence as a whole new horror gripped him moments later when the cold, metallic links of chain were wrapped mercilessly around his exposed neck. It was a matter of seconds for his already oxygen deprived lungs to begin burning for air as he struggled uselessly. The man was firmly planted on his back with the chain gripped in both hands. And then even those sensations began to fade as his body drifted away.

The last thing he heard before darkness engulfed his already panicked mind was the distant popping of gunshots.

~o~o~o~

"...blasted...stupid man...what the bloody..."

The groaning mixed with voices nearby alerted him to the fact that he was once again waking to a most uncomfortable life. As his body began to wake along with all his other senses, Watson realized that groaning he was hearing was his own. In seconds he heard the swiftly approaching footsteps of the two men who had been arguing. Squeezing his eyes shut tightly against the painful sunlight attempting to burn its way through his eyelids, Watson attempted to shift away only to find his hand being caught up by another. In less time than it took him to realize this contact, the light dimmed considerably as someone leant over him.

"Watson," he heard Holmes calling gently. "Is that a little better?"

Carefully, Watson nodded, almost surprised at the lack of explosive pain in his head this time. Even more carefully, he slitted his eyes open until he could see the dark outline of his friend so very near to his face as he used his body to shield Watson from the sunlight of the nearby windows.

"Holmes?"

"Yes, dear chap," Holmes said gently, still not entirely certain of his friend's condition.

"What's wrong with your voice? Are you ill?"

The brief, painful chuckle from his friend eased some of his rising tension as Holmes moved to a more comfortable position beside him as someone had kindly pulled the shades and curtains against the sunlight.

"Dr. Cummings has already seen to my injuries, though they were not severe," Holmes told him, his voice a little stronger at seeing his friend unaffected by the volume.

Watson nodded carefully, taking in the fact that this blurry mass of images beyond his friend resembled their sitting room. Catching sight of a larger, moving blur as his mind recalled a voice from only moments before, he wrinkled his brow in confusion. "Inspector?"

"Yes, Doctor," Lestrade addressed from somewhere near the fireplace, leaving no doubts as to his current mood.

"You're hurt," Watson said, not doubting his instincts for a moment as he struggled to sit up.

Again Holmes chuckled in a way that could only be interpreted as fond as he gently pushed Watson back down onto the settee. "He has also seen the tender cares of a doctor for himself, Watson. You need to rest. I'll have Mrs. Hudson bring some tea in a moment."

His thoughts still foggy and confused, Watson tried to recall what had brought him to this juncture. He could easily remember the blindness and other events, but it was all so jumbled up in his head with anger and concern he couldn't sort it all out right now. Relaxing into the warm comfort of the settee, he felt Holmes shifting as he stood to move away. A whispered conversation took place somewhere nearby, and then he was asleep once more.


	16. Epilogue

_**A/N: **This was so completely NOT planned out in any way. I even spent four days arguing with Watson over where the frig he thought he was going with this blasted story. So, of course, when I come to the end, he decides to punish me by bringing my attention back to something I thought already finished...at least in my mind. Well, I hope this works. Enjoy!_

_And a special shout out and great big *HUGS* __to **Lemon Zinger **for being such an awesome encouragement and distraction these last couple of days. _

_As always a great big THANK YOU SO MUCH to everyone who has taken the time to read and review. Your feedback is greatly appreciated. _

* * *

**Epilogue**

Four years later Watson found himself digging through his little writing desk once more in search of a pencil for his latest sketch when his hands fell upon a personal journal he had all but forgotten. As he drew out the badly ink-stained brown leather journal, he wondered how it was this had managed to get shoved so very far back into this little drawer. When he opened it curiously a few seconds later he all but fell into his chair with a surprised thump, his face an amazing shade of red.

_A Study in Scarlet_

The little project he had started all those years ago, it seemed now. He had completely forgotten it in the events that followed. For that matter, the depression that had come behind the wave of activity as he continued to improve in only the slightest increments had left him acting more like Holmes in one of his black fits than he cared to remember. He still felt somewhat ashamed the the reversal of roles as Holmes continued to prod him in various directions until they could both see a marked improvement in his vision. For a time, all Watson could remember was despairing of ever seeing again and the loss of his profession.

Briefly he toyed with the idea of adding this journal to the rubbish bin beside his desk. But, as he recalled Holmes having once given his approval, another thought crossed his mind. It would likely be months, but maybe...

Hiding the journal in a place he would be able to lay hands on it again easily, he found himself smiling at more than the sketches he was working on this afternoon as his mind began to carefully plan out the first in what he hoped to be a series of adventures he'd had the honor of sharing with the great Sherlock Holmes.

~o~o~o~

Holmes paced the sitting room. Limping painfully, he used the pain as a focal point. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had a good night's sleep, it seemed. His restless movement now was a cross somewhere between anxious worry and frustrated anger. The vicious, icy rain of the late-November evening outside their sitting room seemed to want to pound its way in through those windows. Watson's restless, nocturnal activities of the last few days combined with his aching, badly twisted ankle had kept him up for some time. And, now, it was all he could do to keep from chasing his friend out into that weather.

Watson was nearly an hour overdue.

Though it was not unlike Watson to disappear from time to time without telling his friend and partner where he was going or what he was doing, it was unusual for him to set a specific time and not meet it without at least sending word. More importantly, Holmes' instincts for danger had been aroused when Watson had been so outright evasive of his current activities. It was not out of the ordinary at all for him to withhold details until he had a chance to rest and recover for himself after a long string of ill or injured patients. However, there was something different about this. Watson seemed almost...concerned, for Holmes. It was as if he really didn't want Holmes involved, and the best way he could find to keep his partner out of his activities was to simply not discuss it at all.

Holmes frowned darkly as he swung around to face the fire, yet again. He was certain Watson knew better by now. Not telling Holmes while giving every other indication of having been up to _something_ was enough to drive them both to distraction. Granted, Holmes had little else to do with his time than pester Watson about his errands and activities that Watson deemed he was fit enough in which to participate. Yet, Watson had not displayed any outward signs of annoyance at Holmes' participation or continued meddling.

Heaving a sigh, he tried to force some semblance of calm. Looking up at the clock for perhaps the hundredth time, Holmes attempted to stifle his growing sense of something being very, very wrong. He did not even know where to begin. As much as he would love to go out and find his friend, if only for his own reassurance, he did not know where to even start looking for the infuriating man. He had found nothing to indicate what Watson was working on or where he could have gone. He had only the man's word that he would be back by eight o'clock.

Holmes continued pacing.

Grumbling something less than complementary about Watson to himself, Holmes continued to use the pain and constant motion as a motivation. At this point, nearly two hours late, he was certainly going to give the doctor a piece of his mind. When Watson showed up he was going to—

Suddenly, the sound of the downstairs door being thrown open rather violently arrested his attention. Knowing this would be Watson, and it did not sound good, he threw open the sitting room door. Watson was frantically launching himself up the first flight of stairs when Holmes met him on the landing. Both Watson and the package in his arms were soaked through. Watson, shivering violently, met Holmes' eyes with something akin to deep worry. To anyone else, his face would have been a mask of surprise. To his closest companion, he appeared plagued by guilt.

Immediately Holmes satisfied himself to Watson's condition in that brief glance. Turning his attention to the package in his friend's arms, he noted the unnatural amount of protective wrapping the the careful way Watson had very deliberately held it to keep it out of the rain. Before he had a chance to ask, Watson dashed forward, practically shoving the package into his hands.

"It's an early Christmas present," Watson said quickly. "Go open it in the sitting room. I'm going to change into something dry."

Watson's face had been a mask of absolute terror as he turned and dashed up the stairs without waiting for so much as a response from his friend. Both confused and concerned, Holmes put aside at least some of his combined anger and frustration at hearing the man rummaging around upstairs. Curiosity taking over, Holmes returned to the settee in the sitting room. Though the box was rather large, it was exceedingly light. Forgoing the usual inspection and string of deductions, he quickly cut the ribbon and tore off the brown paper.

What he found next had him cringing mentally in horror. In those few seconds all of Watson's evasiveness and attempts at secrecy of the last several weeks came crashing back into his mind in a flood of revelation. Holding the offensive item before himself he very nearly flung it into the fire.

But it was already too late. If Watson had _this..._

As the more slowly, painfully limping steps descended the stairs, Holmes also recalled having given his approval. After all these years he had thought the man had forgotten. Why now of all things, he could not imagine. Quickly he schooled his features to an impassive mask once more as he opened the horribly titled cover and began to peruse the pages. Watson's shuffling, nervous steps behind him alerted him to the doctor's discomfort and what possible reception he would receive.

"Don't act so frightened, Watson," Holmes chided gently. "I'm not going to expire from the shock. Though this is certainly quite the surprise."

"I finally managed to surprise you?" Watson said with mock seriousness. "Perhaps I should record this event."

His friend's display of humor easing the tension, Holmes finally glanced up from the pages to meet his friend's desperately hopeful expression.

"Hmm..." he mused, "perhaps you should. I find myself rather doubting after this that anything you do would surprise me."

Watson nodded, still fidgeting and nervous as he paced toward the fireplace and back again a couple of times as if uncertain what to do with himself. Finally he took a deep breath that was so reminiscent of the last encounter they had shared over the same subject and sat himself into his writing desk chair.

"Well?" he asked impatiently.

Holmes frowned down at the item in his hands that still made his mind crawl unpleasantly. Looking up, he caught sight of Watson trying to school his features into something less than heartbroken disappointment.

"Do you really think people will read such a thing?"

Watson thought about this for all of maybe a second before realizing this was Holmes quieter way of voicing approval once more. Carefully, he flashed a half a grin before shrugging. "I suppose we will have to wait and see."

Not for the first time, Holmes cursed himself for his weakness. Had it been anyone else splattering his name all over the pages of some grossly exaggerated, romanticized version of his cases he would not be having this conversation. He knew his friend meant well, and he still could not bring himself to so thoroughly crush the hope he saw in those green eyes.

"Agreed," Holmes stated, glad to have the excuse to remove the offending object from his grasp as Mrs. Hudson had arrived with the tea.

Secretly, he warred with himself somewhere between praying Watson was wrong in anyone wanting to read it, and his own desire to locate and burn every copy personally. Perhaps the only thing that stopped this second action was the renewed warmth he found sparkling back at him in those green eyes as Watson hid his smile behind his cup moments later. Again he wondered what he had ever done to deserve such trust from his friend, and official Boswell.


End file.
